


The Sentence of Treason and the Implications that Follow

by AnnaBolena



Category: 18th Century CE RPF, Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: AU: Pirates, Multi, Sailing is involved, Set from 1718-1719 I guess, also some Realpolitik of 18th century France and England, also trans Enjolras, and copious historical research you can catch me nerd out about in the notes, because a rabbit hole is a rabbit hole and I always fall in one whoops
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-01
Updated: 2019-04-28
Packaged: 2019-12-30 12:28:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 72,774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18315269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnnaBolena/pseuds/AnnaBolena
Summary: “I piss on the English,” the Captain sneers.“As you piss on Thénardier, and the Fleur-de-lis, and all those that we trade with out of necessity,” Courfeyrac acknowledges. “You are notoriously hard to appease, have I ever told you that?”“Yes, frequently.”“Well, my dear Captain, once you figure out a way to keep this crew from mutiny without compromising your conscience in the pursuit of our goals, let me know, and I shall try my very best to fulfill your dreams of selling stolen goods in a way that benefits the greater good. For now though, we have possible recruits to muster. And you need to decide whether quarter will be given.”a.k.a. Enjolras is a fearsome Pirate Captain and Courfeyrac is a loyal if slightly exasparated Quartermaster





	1. On Seizing a Ship and the Merits of a Cohesive Relation between Captain and Quartermaster

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Help! I've fallen down a Pirate/Historical Medicine Rabbit Hole and I can't get up!
> 
> Warnings for: Pirate stuff, which in this chapter includes death and injury (not graphic), and Amputation (somewhat more graphic), and needless stream-of-consciousness of one Monsieur Courfeyrac (maybe a Little graphic?)
> 
> Enjoy!

**9th April, 1718 - Two days’ journey South-East of New London, Connecticut Colony**

 

Monsieur Courfeyrac, though prone to lavishness when afforded the opportunity to purchase footwear, carries himself with the light-footedness of a small boy even as the planks of wood beneath his boots are subject to the whims of the sea. Today, the sea’s whims are quite agreeable, he thinks, as the feathers on his hat blow softly enough that they are in no danger of departing into the deep blue around them. With that in his mind he makes his way across the deck to the man in charge.

 

“It would appear we are gaining on them,” he says to his Captain, who is leaning against the railing on his elbows, brow furrowed in concentration, eyes mere slits from how much he is squinting. “There are glasses, if you require them, you know this.”

 

“I am thinking,” his Captain replies, a pink tongue darting out to lick his lower lip. Monsieur Courfeyrac takes these words to be the instruction they are, leaning with his back to the railing so as to see if anyone is within range to overhear the words that may follow. It appears to not be so.

 

“Your contact in Nassau,” he speaks once more, “She assured you the ship would be carrying more than what we two personally consider essential for our plan to have any chance of success?”

 

“They can hardly send a ship back to England carrying nothing but a condemned man, valuable though he may be. Connecticut may be prosperous, but even prosperity is tainted with hunger for further profits,” Monsieur Courfeyrac considers. His captain makes a noise, not quite a hum. He agrees, then, that this would simply be bad business. Courfeyrac gives him a sideways look, watches a few stray curls fly in the wind as his captain points towards the ship they’re gaining on.

 

“Then tell me, dear Courfeyrac, does that ship look burdened by a heavy load to ferry?”

 

It doesn’t. The sloop they’re pursuing rides high and proud on the waves, seemingly unconcerned by the pursuer that has been gaining on them since it first appeared on the horizon around three hours ago. Its flag defiantly hoisted to show allegiance to the Royal Navy, the ship certainly does not give the impression that it is cowed by the notion of pirates. Monsieur Courfeyrac noticed all this and more as soon as they spotted it. There is no small probability that the men will notice soon as well, and that a bleaker outlook on bounty might dampen their fighting spirit. If the wind had not played to their advantage today, they may well have lost sight of her again, considering the ship’s lighter outfit of 20 cannons offers her the benefit of speed when compared to the Abaissés’ outfit of 40 guns, though the Captain took care to lighten their load as much as he dared before they set sail. Today the wind seems to bless their endeavor, thwarting the Protestant Caesar’s escape. Courfeyrac is not one to interpret too much into divine approval unless it suits him, but today it suits him very well. Excitement thrums through his veins at the challenge before him.  

 

“I hesitate to say she willfully misled me, and the ship flies the right flag, is the right sloop, and is precisely where her schedule puts her at. Feuilly counted their cannons. He expressed confidence that we could take them. All is as it should be.”

 

“Except that she is quite a bit lighter than anyone anticipated, you mean to say.”

 

“Yes, Captain, except that. But silks are not so heavy that they may weigh a ship down beyond reason, and are still damningly profitable. In any case there is bound to be food. My contact could not say what else the ship may be carrying.”

 

“I fail to see how food and silks will prove satisfying to the rabble, nor do I see why Connecticut would supply England with silk, the journey seems exceedingly complicated, does it not?” the Captain sighs, fingers tightening on the wood. “They will not be convinced by our effort to take a ship, risking the lives of many men, merely to liberate a single man of no considerable wealth, if we should find the hold empty of anything but a lone prisoner.”

 

“You would do well not to fret over the cargo of ships we have not yet taken.”

 

“As Captain some would say it is my job to fret. They may well stage a mutiny if this fails to satisfy their greed, and their greed I have found to be endless.”

 

“Your task is to lead men in battle, that is not quite the same, and a mutiny is usually survivable. If it were your responsibility to fret you would be doing an awful job of it. You have not even brought up the possibility that the man we are looking for might be on another ship. A prisoner of such importance, they might very well have planned a decoy to see him safely in England once more. The entirety of that crew might have the pox, now that I think about it. What is more, their cannons, inferior in number though they may be, could blow a hole in our ship and do just enough damage to sink us. Truly, Captain, there is so much to fret about, and too little time for you to do it thoroughly. I suggest you give orders instead on how to proceed with the taking of our target.”

His captain gives a heavy sigh, hands Courfeyrac the telescope, and turns to observe Bahorel, expectantly waiting with one hand on his sword belt and the other caressing the steering wheel. Monsieur Courfeyrac claps him on the back when it becomes clear that the conversation has ended, but he does not think he imagines the slight amusement in the pull of his captain’s lips. With some luck, in a few hours, that smile will have reason to appear in full.

 

∞

 

The Eagle approaches Courfeyrac just before they come within range of the Protestant Ceasar’s guns. They are things of beauty to observe through the telescope, he has to admit, though he knows little about their organization. Sure enough, he has learned how to position them, has been taught war field strategy from his father even as the man lay ill recuperating from such battles, has accompanied his father on such conquests from the age of eight onwards, but the mechanisms of such things? Gunpowder and the fashioning of cannon balls, such things are the expertise of other crew members. Lighting a fuse is one thing, but ensuring the weapon does not backfire? Protecting those that operate it so that no limbs are blown off in the blast except those of the enemy? No, that is best left to others. He will be sure to have Feuilly inspect them, once they have won the ship. They may well provide instructions for the further maintenance of their own weapons.

 

 _Now we’ll see, you beautiful things,_ he grins as he observes the heavy things roll into their slots on the side of the ship, ready to do the job the Royal Navy commands of them. _Now we’ll see what you are truly made of, if you, like any other of your kind, can be withstood._

 

“The men on deck are concerned,” The Eagle says, and the gravity of his words is but slightly mitigated by the smile playing around his lips. The Eagle is a jovial man, and hardly ever can be seen with a frown on his face. Beneath the sun his laughter lines have become permanently etched onto his face, testament to his good temper, his bald head covered by ragged red cloth that contrasts brilliantly against his light brown skin. It is part of what makes him so popular with the crew, the other credit being his refusal to grow angry no matter how many card games he loses.

 

“When are they not so?” Courfeyrac replies, keeping his eyes trained on the vessel, “Does their concern impede our plan to take the sloop or may we save this discourse until their blades have been wet and fighting has relieved some pressure?”

 

“I should think not,” The Eagle shakes his head. Overhead, the Captain shouts orders to Bahorel to bring them sideways. After confirming that the man has heard and intends to carry out his orders, he motions to their Master Gunner to check the men on his cannon teams have taken their position, ready to fire. Feuilly nods at the Captain after a cursory glance. “Ready!” He shouts confidently, his pale white skin sunburnt already after so little time without a hat. Courfeyrac is almost tempted to offer his own to the Gunner. The Eagle demands his attention once more though, and thoughts of charitably parting with his hat abandon him once more.

“They are spoiling for a fight, and they’ll take the ship if chance so blesses us. It’s what comes afterwards they’re concerned with. Petit Lard pointed out the apparent lightness of the hold and he’s prone to agitation, you know. It won’t take much to convince them to abandon their hope in the Captain if that cargo isn’t worth it.”

 

Courfeyrac looks at the stout, aptly named man determinedly folding a length of rope around his elbow, scarred face grim and angry eyes trained on the captain. That one has been agitating since they left port, perhaps even earlier. He has never hidden his dislike of the Abaissés’ captain, but he had followed orders without noticeable protest so far. His disapproval when the captain was voted into office was noted by their old Quartermaster, who gave in to a fever some years ago now. Courfeyrac had paid him little mind, a creature of small importance on their ship, commanded on deck not by the Quartermaster but rather the Boatswain, and The Eagle had not voiced suspicion of him before tonight.

 

“I do not imagine the British will simply surrender to us with the way they are behaving. You can ask the men what they think that means in regard to the value of their cargo if they get around to voicing skepticism. Captain hoisted our colors an hour ago, and they have not surrendered, have not as much as dropped anchor or anything of the like. Either they seriously mean to attempt escape, or…”

 

“Or else they’re waiting for someone to come to their rescue that might be floating nearby,” The Eagle realizes, “Just my luck if that is the case. Did any source of yours mention this ship being accompanied?”

 

“Not that I know of, no. The cargo is likely to be insured anyway, it would not be worth such a costly guard dog.”

 

(That, Courfeyrac thinks, is exactly what makes merchant vessels such favorable targets.)

 

But a man accused of high treason on the way to his own execution, well, that is a different matter entirely, Courfeyrac thinks, one that warrants a warship or two by its side, depending on how much worth a certain Monarch stakes on keeping his throne free of dangerous rumors that may otherwise topple him. He turns his head towards the captain, still glaring at the Protestant Caesar, and hopes he still has some luck to use up today.

 

∞

 

The Captain swings his hook first, after the Abaissés has, through a maneuver Courfeyrac cannot help but admire, managed to corner the sloop against a front of unfavorable tides. Say what you will about their Sailing Master’s brawn, he is not without considerable skill at the wheel or the ability to execute the Captain’s wishes. Escape seems impossible now, and he can hear English orders being frantically shouted and relayed on the other vessel. He can tell the Captain hears them as well, understanding the panic that underscores them, and watches a little private smirk unfurl on his face. There is no small amount of relief present as well, as the grappling hook lands, and Feuilly orders his cannon crew to cease their bombardment and prepare for boarding. Petit Lard is to Courfeyrac’s right, and in the glittering sunlight his fletched teeth bring a worried sigh to Courfeyrac’s lips, not spilling over into the air, barely restrained. That man will have to be dealt with in the aftermath, in all likelihood.

 

On his other side, the Captain stands rigidly now, no second hook of his own to be thrown, but a hand firm on his cutlass as he stares the British crew down. Another order is made and their plank creaks as the first musket balls begin to fly. The Captain throws Courfeyrac a final look; they exchange nods, and wordlessly vow to meet again on the other side of the battle. This strategy has worked surprisingly well these past five years. Without this ritual completed, danger has not truly started to enclose them, not in their minds.

 

Dodging in such surroundings, Courfeyrac knows well, leads quickly to a watery death – if it is not the impact on saltwater littered with shards of damaged ship that kills you, it is the pull of the waves, or fire, or toppling pieces of wood that end you, but altogether water is a safer bet of death than the English – and he has come to rely on ignoring the smell of gunpowder and the whistling air around him alike, while in a fight. More often than not it has been mere luck that none have hit him.

 

There is a thrill to it though, he has to admit. His childhood had not been conducive to any personal fighting not considered a sport. Oh yes, the Chevalier de Courfeyrac would have been hard-pressed to send his son into actual danger when he could just as easily allow him to purview the King’s forces dying in a war fought on foreign soil, for the perceived right to a foreign throne, to extend more cruelty over a foreign people. They had dropped by the dozens, then by the hundreds, and from his eighth year onwards Courfeyrac had thought it unbearably strange how the men stood calmly, reloading their guns and shot down methodically as they did so, never thinking to break rank and instead defend their lives with the sword or run from almost certain death. That kind of discipline was inspiring, though not enough to make Courfeyrac wish to emulate it. Discipline, carried to its extreme, is once more turned into foolishness.

 

(“Papa,” he would say, seated on the saddle with the man protectively behind him, excitedly observing through a looking glass, “Why do they not defend themselves?”

 

“Mon petit,” his father would reply grandly, “They fight for something larger than themselves. They fight for the glory of Monsieur le roi, and would sooner die than abandon their aims of protecting his interests. Such is the way of the valiant Frenchmen.”

 

Later, Courfeyrac had reached the likelier conclusion that death lingered in both directions, and that death by the enemy, rather than death after desertion, meant that a soldier’s family might have at least a little hope of compensation.)

 

It is why Courfeyrac prefers this type of fighting, where he knows his own men fight for the goal of gold, a choice they made, rather than because they were pressed into the fight by a greedy King. It is each man’s own greed and ambition that drives the fight. They themselves reap the benefits of it and see it satisfied. Granted, there is the same chance of death for cowardly behavior, though because even the highest ranking among them fight as others do, Courfeyrac feels less of the guilt he felt while with his father, when they kept a safe distance and suffered no repercussion for their own cowardice, their refusal to fight; when every well to do man could press a few coins in the right palms and see his life safe, claiming spoils they sacrificed other men for.

 

When his hat is blown off by a stray gunshot and his sabre promptly dispatches the shooter to the afterlife, his blood runs hot, he cannot deny it. Cuts received in moments of such fervor are easily ignored and there is only a goal to be reached. A goal they strive for together, each and every man working in unison to achieve it. It is harmonious, the sound of swords with the grunts and growls that accompany fighting, the orders their Captain shouts, the way they are obeyed.

 

With every sailor that seeks to block his path to the barred hold, his confidence that they have entered the right ship grows. He sees Petit Lard cut down by a square-chested sailor with greasy black hair and privately admires the man’s fighting ability. Too many of the Royal Navy’s sailors are without measurable skill, kidnapped from taverns or lured in with promises of money for their families.

 

This one fights as though he actually knows what he is doing, as though he has had more than meagre instruction hastily given on deck seconds before danger arrived, but Courfeyrac loses sight of him quickly when the call to surrender is heard across the ship. The Captain of the Protestant Caesar is on his knees for the man Courfeyrac follows, and it seems the day is won. The English Captain’s chin is raised slightly by the cutlass that has disarmed him, and though there is some demurring, the English soldiers lower their weapons. It takes further hesitance for the sailors to follow suit, but ultimately the clatter of weapons on the wooden floor grows steadily louder.

 

“Disarm and disable, Gentlemen, no one is to be harmed until further notice,” Courfeyrac cries out, though many bodies already litter the deck, “Charles and Ménard, with me!”

 

∞

 

As Courfeyrac makes his way through the hold of the ship, two of the men flanking him, they come upon the body of a soldier, and he does not think it bodes well. “Was there fighting down here?”

 

“It doesn’t look it, Mister Courfeyrac, the surrender on deck was complete before we breached the doors,” the man to his left says. “No damage, no blood beyond the single wound. If they did fight down here it wasn’t fair.”

 

Charles squats next to the body of the soldier, who is indeed missing one eye. “No, this one was murdered, I’d think. Choked by manacles, if I were a betting man, though the eye might have been what did him in, in the end.”

 

“You are a betting man, Charles,” Monsieur Courfeyrac says, drawing his sabre as he walks further into the rooms only sparsely illuminated by the sun above. They have sat down at many a tavern table with one another, a deck of cards between them, whenever they reach port. Past a few more barrels that he orders the man to his right to bring back onto their ship, another dead man lies, chained to a pallet. This one has his throat cut.

 

Courfeyrac is forced to take a deeper breath than he should like to maintain a calm face. On a ship supposedly carrying only one prisoner, a dead man, shackled, is precisely what he had not wanted to find.

 

“Ménard, take the rest of the barrels, see if you can find anything of note in the rooms there. I am going to have a look at our second dead man.”

 

Courfeyrac regards the body, going onto one knee in front of him. In his pockets there is nothing, his hair is shaved, his skin weathered as you would expect of a sailor. Not an old man by any account, but aged quickly under a harsh sun. His skin is still warm, the blood still pooled wetly on his shirt. But there’s no pulse to be found, not a breath to be heard.  

 

_Shit._

 

∞

 

Monsieur Courfeyrac returns onto the Abaissés on steady legs, though a new urgency propels him. As he dismounts the plank a strong hand catches his own to catch him when, despite his caution, he stumbles a little. A second hand appears low on his back, warm and more of a comfort than it has any right to be. He nods his thanks at Monsieur Combeferre, the tallest man on their crew, whose spectacles and face are smattered with droplets of blood today, visible even against the dark brown of his skin, stark in contrast to the white shirt he wears. There is some concern in those sagacious eyes, though little else to make out. Monsieur Combeferre, Courfeyrac has found out years ago, is a man that keeps his cards unbearably close to his chest, but given the man’s history, Courfeyrac cannot begrudge him the privacy he clearly desires.

 

(A man can have a multitude of reasons to keep to himself, he supposes, when he thinks of Monsieur Combeferre, or their Captain. What is important to Courfeyrac, all things considered, is that a man does not pretend he has nothing to hide. That, he thinks, is true dishonesty.)

 

Perhaps someday he should mention as much to the man who has functioned so closely by his side in such a professional capacity since they fished him out of the water near Charleston, but that will have to wait until circumstances permit conversation that isn’t hurried or laden with plans for the taking of another ship.

 

“Captain’s quarters,” Courfeyrac tells him, “Now.”

 

“There are men that need seeing to,” Monsieur Combeferre sighs, following Courfeyrac’s eyes to his own shirt, run through with blood. “It is not mine. You know I’m never the first over the vanguard with you. But I’ve got Isaac waiting for an amputation of his right leg and several other wounds that need to be dealt with.”

 

“Isaac’s need is pressing, I gather?”

 

“Quite. I assume you have not found…” Monsieur Combeferre starts, pausing when he spots blood on Courfeyrac’s hands, immediately frowning. Courfeyrac is fascinated that his spectacles do not even dislodge a fraction of an inch, firmly held in place though they must press horribly down on the skin of his head.

 

“Not a drop of my own on these hands,” Courfeyrac holds each of his digits up for inspection, “But someone cut my back, I am aware of it now that the fighting is done. You can have a look at it later if it will appease your worried brow. As for what I have not found, I dare say you are right in your assumptions, Monsieur. I must go see the Captain now. Tell The Eagle, if he happens to fly your way, that the sloop has beautifully fresh, intact cannons, he has been complaining about two of ours being unreliable and perilous to clean for the past three weeks. Feuilly can take them from our gracious hosts.”

 

“What of the crew that surrendered?” Monsieur Combeferre eyes the thirty or so men kneeling in the blood of their slain compatriots.

 

“I imagine that will depend on whether the Captain sees fit to give quarter today, though I do not expect him to, given what I am about to tell him.”

 

Monsieur Combeferre takes a deep breath. Promptly, he excuses himself, taking two men to assist the limping and whimpering Isaac to where they may strap him down.

 

∞

 

“Dead?” The Captain sits at his desk, staring at Courfeyrac in disbelief. His eyes are never as wide as when he is genuinely, horrifyingly caught off-guard. Courfeyrac does not think he has seen them in this wide a state since he knocked on the man’s door at age sixteen with spare clothes, offering escape and a chance to fulfill dreams. He almost has to smile upon remembering that night, the unspoken gratitude and the utter lack of regret that followed it.

 

Back in the present, some ten years later, it appears Courfeyrac is not the only one that has lost his hat, though he sees the captain’s sitting nearby, so this progression into a state of undress must have been deliberate rather than a casualty in the battle. It only ever is so within the Captain’s quarters.

 

“Throat slit from ear to ear is how we found him. They must have known we knew about who they were carrying and decided they would rather kill a man without even a farce of a trial than let what he knows fall into the wrong hands. Likely they had a failsafe in place. It looks like he did not go without a fight either. Found a naval officer that was choked by manacles and had his eye gouged out not three feet from him, his hands still bloody, and a knife glistening nearby.”

 

“Shit,” the Captain says.

 

Yes, Courfeyrac is quite inclined to agree.

 

“On the plus side,” he says, “I was blessedly right about the silk. Charles found the hold brimming over with it. I think that shall sell spectacularly well with the merchants of Guadeloupe, do you not concur? And someone in Nassau enjoys excellent relations with them. That is, if they manage not to get blood on it, but that would be their own damn fault then, and they could hardly blame you or me for it.”

 

“If you can find someone to fence it – I hear the old Gillenormand is ailing,” the Captain throws in, fiddling with his knife, his touch just light enough not to draw blood.

 

“I hear his grandson is set to arrive from Paris any day now to take over the family business,” Courfeyrac shrugs, “There is always Thénardier to sell to, since the Spanish merchants refuse to talk to me once I drop your name. Could you not have changed your name as any sensible pirate does to something that might be less offensive to the Spaniards than your father’s name?”

 

“You have not seen fit to change yours either,” the Captain snorts, looking up at last from his knife.

 

“And I have never subscribed to the idea of being a sensible person,” Courfeyrac grins. “I will gladly leave such virtues in the capable hands of men like our surgeon.”

 

“Still not a friend of fighting, I suppose?”

 

“Not at all, he remains the steadfast enemy of violence not invoked in the name of medicine, though he is as fearsome as ever with a cleaver and some incentive,” Courfeyrac shrugs, “The crew forgives his opposition easily, given how many of their lives he has saved now. They would find themselves hard-pressed to come across a better man for the job. Let me think…we could sell it back to the English, sail back to Nassau once our business here is concluded to confer with my contact.”

 

“I piss on the English,” the Captain sneers.

 

“As you piss on Thénardier, and the Fleur-de-lis, and all those that we trade with out of necessity,” Courfeyrac acknowledges. “You are notoriously hard to appease, have I ever told you that?”

 

“Yes, frequently.”

 

“Well, my dear Captain, once you figure out a way to keep this crew from mutiny without compromising your conscience in the pursuit of our goals, let me know, and I shall try my very best to fulfill your dreams of selling stolen goods in a way that benefits the greater good. For now though, we have possible recruits to muster. And you need to decide whether quarter will be given.”

 

“We still need to decide on our next step of action.”

 

“Aye,” Courfeyrac nods, “I imagine Monsieur Combeferre would like to be included in that conversation, which is why we must wait to have it once Bahorel has brought us on our way from here.”

 

∞

 

This English captain, Courfeyrac thinks, does not look like a man he would entrust with the safekeeping of England’s most wanted traitor. His limbs are spindly, his face haughty and arrogant, set apart from the rest of his crew by how clean-shaven he is, how well-mended and fitted his clothes are, how meticulously powdered his wig. Courfeyrac is reminded no small amount of his late father, the presumption of power is the same he sees in many of the nobility. He almost suggests they ransom him, if only to bring the prize of their haul up a little more yet, but that would mean keeping him alive for at least six months, and such negotiations rarely turn out favorably.

 

“Are you who your flag says you are?” The English Captain asks. His speech is rasped, but his voice remains steady despite the evident fear in his eyes. A small pool of blood has gathered on his collar from where he was struck on the shoulder, but otherwise he is immaculately composed. It is, Courfeyrac remembers as another military instruction, a matter of pride for captured men that still care for their reputation to uphold such a demeanor, but he does not admire the man any more for it. The sneer on his lip as he beholds the man whose crew captured him goes a long way in diminishing any respect Courfeyrac might hold for him. The flag they sail under has gained notoriety in recent months, but so has their Captain, for reasons less favorable. Rumors spread, and Courfeyrac thinks it is due to a remarkable effort of his talents and The Eagle’s cooperation, that not once has the crew demanded to see the Captain disprove such rumors. There would be no way to disprove them, after all, not without enlightening the crew on several subjects Courfeyrac generally considers above their grasp. One by one they might be persuaded to accept the truth, but as a mob stoked by rumors flying left and right? That is far less likely, to say the least.

 

“Who I am is of little consequence,” The Captain answers, blue eyes narrowing. Courfeyrac stands behind his captain, glancing across the deck on occasion to look at what remains of the crew. Anyone wearing a soldier’s uniform will be put to death, such a thing is inevitable. Out of the sailors that remain, the merchants, well… there are certain posts on their ship that must be refilled. They only lost two men today, but three were injured, and Monsieur Combeferre’s continued lack of presence on deck indicates that they are in the process of losing more.

 

Not every man can continue to fight absent a leg, or absent his wits. And while compensation is guaranteed for every man that does his part, it is all too easy to drink it away and fall into debt, then death, in quick succession. Replacements are nonetheless necessary.

 

“Captain Enjolras, that is who you are, then,” their prisoner says, over-affecting the French pronunciation of the ancestral name, “I always thought the stories of your youth must have been grossly exaggerated, the stuff that feeds a legend on the waters. You look to be more a maid of seventeen than the fearsome pirate captain you claim to be.”

 

Enjolras does not smile. No singular muscle in his – admittedly, yes, very youthful – face twitches. To his great credit, he does not strike the captain in anger either, though Courfeyrac is grimly considering it for himself.

 

“You were escorting a prisoner back to Whitehall, Captain, your log says as much and a letter from the Earl of Orford himself, promising you opulent rewards upon reaching your destination. Were you under orders to execute the man, should your ship be overtaken?”

 

Laughter bubbles out of their prisoner slowly, like a spring only just unearthed. It grows until he laughs himself hoarse, Courfeyrac can barely make out a few words through the thickness of his throat, fluent though his English may be: “French bastards” and “For the glory of King George.”

 

The man’s fate is decided shortly thereafter, with but one look passed between Enjolras and Courfeyrac.

 

“Find me our surgeon, would you? I believe I require some assistance in choosing the weapon that might cause the most efficient torture, or else my clumsy fingers might truly take their time,” Enjolras’ English is crisp, learned easily while accompanying his father as envoy to London in his youth, before he was ever introduced to Courfeyrac in a grand manor, before Courfeyrac ever kissed his hand and Enjolras ever curtsied with a roll of his deep blue eyes. Courfeyrac believes that it is the frighteningly calm tone of voice that finally sobers the English captain to the reality of his situation.

 

“Right away,” Courfeyrac promises.

 

∞

 

“This one says he wants to join,” the Boatswain catches Courfeyrac by the elbow on his way to the retrieve Monsieur Combeferre. Courfeyrac takes in the potential recruit. He remembers the greasy dark hair of the sailor that sent Petit Lard to his death with a clean cut. The same broad chested man stands in front of him now, his beard devastatingly unkempt. Though many sailors have grown a beard none he has seen today are quite as wild as this one.

 

“You have seen fighting today,” Courfeyrac points out, looking at the man’s bloodied shirt and recalling the memory of Petit Lard’s sudden death well. “Your own blood?”

 

“Nothing too grave,” the man smirks, holding up his right palm. The wound is not deep at all, Courfeyrac does not think even the muscle has been cut.

 

“Hm,” Courfeyrac considers, “What did you do for King and Country?”

 

“Rigging. I saw one of your men on the nets blown to pieces by British cannons, so I thought I might take his place, since I doubt your Captain intends to leave survivors, with how murderously he’s haranguing the cunt this ship took orders from.”

 

The man is astute, and a general air of gruffness usually proves useful to surviving on the sea. There is little reason to refuse him.

 

“Your wound might fester.”

 

“It might and it might not,” the man agrees. “Chance, that.”

 

“How is your French, Monsieur…?”

 

“Raleigh, though I go by R. Good enough to curse a man out and to procure the services of a willing lady. That has always served me well enough,” the man says, scratching his beard with the uninjured hand. It’s shockingly dirtied, and though Courfeyrac knows his own cleanliness is lacking at the moment, he’ll be sure to toss the man into a bathtub – or, if no possibility presents itself, the ocean, once they make port. Honestly, the Royal Navy and her standards.

 

“We do need someone up there,” Courfeyrac sighs, “Very well, L’Aigle, show him the ropes. And teach him the meaning of the orders he might hear, that’s most pressing for the time being.”

 

Feuilly has some English still, though more Gaelic, being an old powder monkey of the Royal Navy himself, once pressed into service in some Irish port or other, so in all likelihood they’ll get on well enough. Courfeyrac is quite content with his choice to replace their man in the nets. If now they could only rid him of his stench.

 

∞

 

Monsieur Combeferre, it appears, has run into some trouble of his own in the course of Isaac’s amputation. Currently it seems the man is passed out, and Courfeyrac sees what used to be the man’s right leg, up to his knee, laying forgotten some feet away. Monsieur Combeferre is in the process of washing the merrily bleeding wound with one of the mixtures that has generated the rumors of tribal witchcraft among other crews, given how seldom one of their own succumbs to infection. Monsieur Combeferre has repeatedly explained the importance and strategy of reducing inflammation to any crew member that dares to ask, but most are content to put their trust in his capable hands, much to what Courfeyrac perceives to be the man’s exasperation. Sometimes, Monsieur Combeferre reminds him of an ignored prophet and the image amuses him. On occasion he takes to asking Monsieur Combeferre about the subject of medicine and passes an evening listening to the man speak in awe and admiration. Other days, he admits to Monsieur Combeferre that he does not understand what he is saying, and they speak of other things.

 

Isaac awakes with a gasp, heaving for a few breaths before looking down and beginning to scream in earnest. It is a sight Courfeyrac never wishes to wake up to, his leg suddenly disappearing.

 

“Hold him down, would you?” Monsieur Combeferre demands of Courfeyrac before he has formally acknowledged his presence. Here, there is something to truly be admired: the way Monsieur Combeferre manages to stay calm through the grisliest of proceedings. Nothing suffices to shake his composure. The man does not raise his voice for anyone, not in all the years that Courfeyrac has known him. He threads a needle and begins to stitch the flaps of skin he has left hanging over together, cauterizing arteries with a heated blade as he progresses. Isaac sporadically loses his bearings and comes to again, clutching and clawing at Courfeyrac, screaming in agony.

 

“There’s a good man,” Courfeyrac commends with a tender slap to the cheek, once the worst of it has passed, feeding the patient and himself some particularly strong rum. This medical business, once the fighting has passed, is ghastly, and Courfeyrac’s stomach is not appreciative of it. He can fight a man to the death when his blood is high, but to do this to a friend in the name of saving his life? Unbearable.

 

“We have found someone for the rigging,” Courfeyrac says, watching Monsieur Combeferre clean his hands with a rag that has seen better days before he begins to methodically clean the skin surrounding the amputated joint, checking for residual bleeding. It looks to have subsided.

“As for the other incapacitated prisoners, they do not seem to care much to sail under a French Captain, despite our reputation of fearsomeness.”

 

“I wonder,” Monsieur Combeferre explains his thoughts as he moves on to cleaning his spectacles, “Is it the Captain’s French that bothers them, or is it that they do not believe Enjolras a Captain worthy of issuing commands to lead them?”

 

“I believe I heard the word youth whispered under shallow breath, the inevitable consequence of his countenance. They will come to fear him soon enough. I do not doubt he will make a show of their Captain. He has requested your presence and advice, though that may have been for show. You know how little these noble Captains fear more than seeing a man such as you respected and valued among those they would prescribe more worth to.”

 

“A man such as myself…” Combeferre muses distractedly, at last cleaning his instruments, which Courfeyrac knows to be the final step in his surgical process. “Check his pulse as I showed you every quarter of an hour or so, fetch me if it changes considerably, otherwise let him rest and I dare say he is likely to survive. Oh, and do make sure you clean him up if he has lost his bowels after all, I thought I might have heard something indicative and do not think he needs the humiliation when he awakens for good, do you?”

 

“Thank you, Doctor,” Joseph claps Combeferre’s shoulder, eyes shining with awe. Monsieur Combeferre turns back to Courfeyrac, eyes curious behind less bloody spectacles.

 

 

“And what kind of man does the Quartermaster mean to insinuate I am, I wonder?”

 

“You know well there is no man I hold in higher esteem than you, Monsieur Combeferre,” Courfeyrac hastens to assure him, “Though let us not pretend that, were we on the continent or in the old world, mine would be a view the majority accepted.”

 

Monsieur Combeferre regards him a moment longer, and Courfeyrac cannot shake the notion that he must have upset the man unintentionally. That will also have to be addressed when they are afforded time.

 

“You could not persuade Enjolras to be merciful?”

The change in topic is a welcome one, steering them back to why Courfeyrac initially sought them out below deck.

 

“I do not much desire him to show mercy today. That is more your nature than mine. From what I heard from the crew he was a right piece of shit who pocketed more than he shared, but even fear inspires solid loyalty sometimes.”

 

“And so you would readily see him butchered?”

 

“There is no butchery in what the Captain does, only a disturbing lack of hesitance. Come, Mister Combeferre, the spectacle beckons. No one would have you miss it.”

 

∞

 

Courfeyrac finds the Captain with his arms crossed, eyes watching the prisoners. His gaze is uncompromising in its harshness after the English Captain’s soul has fled his body. In the end there was little use for torture, as the sight of Monsieur Combeferre, bloodied and menacing in his determined stride, induced the Captain to reveal where he had hidden the documents pertaining to the case of the traitor even before the cache of surgical tools was ever revealed, and that he had not received instructions to have the man killed, but rather have him reach Whitehall intact or suffer greatly for it, swiftly followed by pleading and appeals to Enjolras’ mercy.

 

(“It is something more than we thought to have half an hour ago, these records,” Courfeyrac shrugs when Enjolras asks his opinion on the matter, “And if it is true that England does not know the extent of what has been tortured out of the prisoner before his untimely death, there is still considerable power in our hand when we make our move.”

 

“Something feels off about the way he laughed, does it not? Like he could not believe the prisoner to be dead, almost. It is most unsettling.”

 

“I can have Monsieur Combeferre declare the body, if that would ease your conscience, Captain, but I doubt his report will greatly differ from mine.”

 

“Do it, though do not mistake it for a lack of trust in your declaration, I beg you.”

 

“Dear friend I know you merely wish to assure yourself. I am not offended.”)

 

“Have any of them joined up?”

 

“Just one man, to replace the man that was shot to pieces in the nets, and he seems an adequate fighter too. We’ll have to see about other replacements on land. Petit Lard is dead and Monsieur Combeferre has not informed me of the extent of our other injuries yet.”

 

Courfeyrac points out the man standing next to Bossuet, free of shackles and with a makeshift bandage around his injured hand, conversing with him as if they had known each other for years by way of emphatic hand movements. There’s an easy smile around his lips that Courfeyrac is inclined to mistrust. In his experience, men who are not shaken at least a little in the aftermath of blood and carnage are the most dangerous there are. No, the man seemed quite nonchalant, and in consequence Courfeyrac has already decided to keep a very close eye on the man.

 

(It is why it comes as such a relief that he can still manage to find Enjolras staring out of the windows in his quarters, fingers shaking and eyes hard but red, every time their raids are complete. It is why, later tonight, before Monsieur Combeferre arrives from his duties to discuss further strategies, Courfeyrac will offer Enjolras some comfort that has not been rejected since the night the man revealed his truth to Courfeyrac, and it is why come tomorrow, they will feel somewhat whole again.)

 

“Says he worked the riggings on the ship, holds little love for the English. Apparently his mother was a Scottish whore. He says it is only customary to for a Scotsman to throw his lot in with the French. Very savvy, though his actual French seems somewhat lacking.”

 

“Well enough, he shall have to do. I suppose we had better get on with the dreadful business then,” Enjolras frowns. His knuckles whiten a little on the wood before him, more tension in his shoulder than before they had taken the ship. Quieter, he says: “They surrendered, Courfeyrac. It is not right of us to deny them.”

 

“It is not,” Courfeyrac agrees, “But if the ship reaches its destination our plan is more than likely shot.”

 

“We discussed this,” Enjolras nods, stiffly, eyes flitting around the deck, where their men stand poised to follow any order given. “And still I wish there were a different path to take that might lead us where we must go.”

 

“If I could but envision one I would urge you to take it,” Courfeyrac promises. “But I cannot in good conscience encourage you to use morality as a compass today.”

 

“Very well,” Enjolras decides, having taken a deep breath of consideration.

 

Then he gives the order to shoot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Where are Joly, Prouvaire, and any other boi I have not explicitly mentioned? Not to worry, they will appear. Patience. 
> 
> -New London, Connecticut, was a prosperous port in the 18th Century, but mostly I picked it because I like the idea of a ship sailing from New London to London, sue me.
> 
> -The 'Protestant Caesar' was an English ship seized on the 9th of April, 1718, by Blackbeard's flagship 'Queen Anne's Revenge'. I have little to no info on what kind of ship it was, other than merchant, so this merchant ship has been made into a three-mast-one-deck sloop, era-appropriate. It was subsequently burned and sunk. In this story it was taken by French Pirates instead, even though during the Golden Age of Piracy that lasted until about 1726, admittedly, the glorious hour of French Pirates was already over, and instead it were mostly Englishmen that struck fear into the heart of merchant vessels. Artistic license!
> 
> (Also Courfeyrac has an Obsession with talking about Cannons, that's, pardon the pun, Canon, its not just in there because I like them too.)
> 
> -The Abaissés, as I have creatively named the ship Enjolras commandeers, is more like a man-o'-war specifically designed for warring purposes, which you can assume Enjolras and Courfeyrac either stole or purchased with the remainder of their French wealth. She's got a larger outfit of guns but also three masts. 
> 
> -The Fields of War Courfeyrac's memories are referring him to were fought on during the War of Spanish sucession, that lasted from 1701-1714, called Queen Anne's war where it was fought in the colonies, which we'll get into more in later chapters. 
> 
> -The Earl of Orford refers to Robert Walpole, Great Britain's Prime Minister during the reign of George I, though that post was not created until 1721. At this point he had not only worked for the reconiciliation of Queen Anne and her Cabinets, but was also accused of fraud and in turn suffered impeachment and imprisonment, only to return to courtly life as a martyr and begin his upward Ascension. Unlikely that he was the guy you would have gone to to ensure the retrieval of a traitor, but once more, artistic license! 
> 
> -Combeferre's surgical skills are, in the Western History of Medicine that I know about, ca. a century too advanced, but he I'm very much fine in claiming that Western Medicine was not at its best in those centuries, and that Combeferre is either That Smart or got this Knowledge from wise practitioners that didn't buy into Galen's bullshit theory about Four Body Juices and Good Pus Which Must be Induced!!! We'll get to that more in later chapters as well. 
> 
> -When the man that joins the crew implies it is customary for Scots to flee to the French, he is referring to the early beginnings of Jacobite rebellions, because the "Stuart Pretenders" that sought to seize the English throne after it passed to the house of Hanover with Queen Anne's death in 1714, were occasionally aided by the French in their goals. He may also be referring to the fact that Charles II, a Scottish-descended Stuart, whose ascension, you'll recall, eventually restored the English Monarchy, spent his exiled years with his mother and sister (who later married the Brother of Louis XIV), in France and at the French Court. 
> 
> If anything in this chapter is unclear, don't hesitate to ask for context or just inform me of any mistakes I might have made. In any case, I'd love some comments. :)


	2. On Returning to Dry Land and any Business Concluded in such Events

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for: Courfeyrac's internal monologue (this time with more philosophy on what war means to him) and the sad reality of living on an 18th century Island (Prostitution, poverty, etc.)

**April 9th, 1718, The Abaissés en route to Nassau**

There is a small measure of peace to be found in disposing of an entire crew _before_ setting fire to a caught vessel, namely that the departing pirate ship and its crew are spared the horrifying sight of men leaping to their watery deaths in a desperate bid to escape, accompanied by blood-curdling screams and desperately launched prayers that will find no answer.

The peace it brings is almost inconsolably small in measure, but Courfeyrac chooses to hold onto that, for it is all that he has. A swift end brought by a bullet through the head is, in every case, preferable to being burned alive.

He remembers how his father used to frown when explosions set their soldiers ablaze. The occurrence was not all too rare, when taking defunct cannons or projectiles deliberately set fire to by the enemy into account. Courfeyrac recalls the screams well, the uncoordinated dance to find cool relief of any measure – water, mud, it hardly mattered – too often over before any remedy was found. Those wretched few that survived such an onslaught often succumbed to death a short while afterwards on shoddy field cots in dark, musty tents, when sickness invaded their bodies through long patches of split, tender skin. He has seen that too, though his father took great care to keep him away, for his health.

No, men of their stature, he used to say, would do better to convalesce in private, away from the unavoidable stench of battle, befitting their dignity. In his earliest memories, Courfeyrac recalls accepting such notions of distinction by rank without question, the wisdom imparted by his father taken for fact, but when, against all odds, his father had fallen ill on those pestilence plagued fields where in the aftermath of battles twice the number of casualties reliably arose, Courfeyrac had thought that his dignity was no greater than that of the lowest of soldiers, as he coughed and hacked up blood. The feverish sweat on his brow had repeatedly caused his wig to slide off, and every time his father had ordered the servants to set it once again. He’d been close to asking his father to be allowed to retire back to the countryside then, to be allowed a visit to his beloved sister, anything, but he had resisted the impulse. There was a chance his father would not recover, and Courfeyrac had not been able to stand the thought that his father’s last memory of his only living son might be his cowardice.

Years later, his last memory of his son might have been a defiant letter, proclaiming that he had not given Courfeyrac a wife as he had expected when he married him off, following a staunch essay on his political views, formed, in part, by the spouse chosen for him, and his own knowledge of how the King maintained his power. But Courfeyrac never sent it.

Now, as Courfeyrac watches their beloved _Abaissés_ sail away from a destroyed English merchant ship, he still cannot find it in himself to regret the path he has taken. It is freer, this life of piracy, not only of obligations and burdens heaved on by an ancestral title he never wished to hold, but also of guilt. Not entirely free, he still has his own conscience to answer to above everything else, and a crew that relies on their Quartermaster, but it is a responsibility and a burden he has chosen, and that, he thinks, makes all the difference.

“Isaac is awake again. Said he wants to speak with you,” Joseph pulls him out of thoughts on the verge of turning philosophical. At last, Courfeyrac turns his eyes and mind away from the burning wreck that was once the _Protestant Caesar_.

“Already? Not three hours ago the man was bleeding out,” Courfeyrac is amused, following Joseph down into the hold of their ship, where Isaac is trying to get up despite Monsieur Combeferre’s well-meant remonstrations on the importance of rest, lest a disturbance to the wound cause infection.

“I cannot save your life if you refuse to cooperate with me,” he cautions, the last warning of the sort, Courfeyrac suspects, Monsieur Combeferre is willing to give tonight. Even a saint’s patience must have its limits, though he knows from experience with Monsieur Combeferre that in case his patience finds itself suddenly at its end, the man will simply retire to read a book, unavailable to the entirety of the crew for hours at a time.

“There he is,” Isaac slumps back onto the table, relieved, reaching for Courfeyrac’s hands, “Ye’re not going to throw me off the ship, are ye? Not me? I’ve been with ye right from the start, haven’t I…? Ye wouldn’t…”

Courfeyrac considers him, thinking of what to say.

“No matter what happens, Isaac, you are entitled to your loss of limb compensation, as well as your share of this haul, you know that, right?”

“Yes, I know, Courf…Courfeyrac I can’t be thrown from this crew, I can’t-”

“Be calm, brother,” Courfeyrac urges him, gently, “We are going to track the progress of your recovery, and if it has not been sufficient by the time we sail from Nassau again, then for the time being we will leave you in the capable arms of your sweetheart – what is the dear’s name again? I forget, but she’s the one with the flaming red hair and the lovely singing voice, right? Works at Thénardier’s inn, wants you to finally get your act together and spirit her away into a passionately consummated marriage, to father about a dozen little brats that, with any luck, will inherit her beauty and not your ugly mug?”

Isaac’s eyes are closed, a few tears drying on his face, a serene smile on his lips interrupted by fond laughter as he agrees. “Ye ass! At least I’m not a dainty little Adonis like yerself. Yeah, that’s my girl ye’re describing, Ursula. She’s Joseph’s sister, don’t tell him I’m sweet on her.”

Across the table, Joseph is grinning at Courfeyrac, nodding towards the emptied bottle of rum and raising an indicative brow.

“What, are you afraid Joseph will run you through when he worked so hard to help Monsieur Combeferre see you through this mess with your leg? I imagine he ought to be glad to know his sister loves a man that wants her to be happy.”

“She said she’d tell him herself…” Isaac’s tears are fresh again now, “When we return to her…Oh! God, Christ above, the pain! Doctor, please, something for the pain.”

“You’ve drunk all your rum, Isaac, and you staunchly refused laudanum.”

“I think I’ll gladly take your magic poppy milk now, Doctor, now that he’s reminded me why I’m suffering to stay alive.”

“Very well,” Monsieur Combeferre agrees, and has the preparation swiftly at hand. “Now, Joseph, it’s imperative that he rests his leg, lest agitation let inflammation seep in despite our efforts.”

Joseph is nodding studiously, grinning fondly down at an alternately smiling and hissing Isaac. Monsieur Combeferre bids Courfeyrac to follow him, and once the door is closed behind him he speaks: “That was clever of you, I think he almost entirely overheard that you staunchly refused to guarantee Enjolras would take him on again once we left him with Ursula.”

“800 pieces of eight and then some is a good sum to start a prosperous life with,” Courfeyrac shrugs, “If he is not an idiot he will have some more stashed away elsewhere. But you know as well as I do that life on deck is hard even for those in possession of all four limbs. Very few of our amputees managed to execute the Captain’s demands as promptly as desired, though none, I think, begrudged him his choice, given his very generous compensation.”

Monsieur Combeferre is quiet.

“You are opposed to my strategy?”

“I…I am reluctant to lie to a man, even with the desire in mind of easing his worries, though I understand why you do it. There was no truthful answer to his question that would comfort him, and so you talked around the issue. You are a clever man, Courfeyrac, though I have known this for quite some time.”

“And now you have very aptly talked around giving me a direct answer, Monsieur Combeferre,” Courfeyrac needles. “I will not press you for one. No, I believe I have a meeting with the Captain to make, at this moment. Hold one quarter of an hour then follow me, if you would.”

“Courfeyrac,” Monsieur Combeferre’s deep, steady voice stops him in his path. Courfeyrac halts, casts a look over his shoulder. “I meant to say that while I admire the skill behind such a tongue as yours, it does induce one to wonder how much you are not saying.”

“I have often found myself wondering the same about your person, Monsieur,” Courfeyrac inclines his head before he beats a hasty retreat. There is something in Monsieur Combeferre’s eyes when he addresses him so that tightens around his chest like a vise, and it is a dangerous notion for him to even entertain the implication of such a sensation.

**∞**

“Captain,” Courfeyrac announces his entrance to the well-outfitted cabin with care, not wanting to disturb the man too profoundly. It is quite a bit like approaching a wounded animal without startling it. “Isaac has survived his amputation. Monsieur Combeferre seems to think his prospects are not terrible. The three other injuries have been washed and wrapped, and our new man for the rigging, it seems, has made fast friends with the Boatswain. From what I take it they have settled down to share rum rations.”

“There is no man with a heart in his chest that would not make fast friends with the Boatswain, if only to swindle him out of all his hard-earned money.”

“Do you propose I mention this to L’Aigle? I do not think he is unaware of his bad luck.”

“You may call it bad luck, Courfeyrac, and I may choose to call it a foolish fondness of gambling while drunk. What about your cut?”

“Mine?” Courfeyrac twists a little, feels a sharp but tolerable stab of pain across his back. “I cannot tell if it has stopped bleeding entirely, but it certainly feels as though it has.”

“You mean to tell me Combeferre has not looked at it yet, I gather,” Enjolras raises a brow at him, supremely cunning and expressive in its own right.

“He’s not far behind me, he may have a look at it then,” Courfeyrac dismisses, “I come now to see if you have need of me.”

Enjolras looks up from where he is studying the logs from the Protestant Caesar, eyes curious. “Have you surmised the final numbers of our haul today yet?”

“That may easily wait until later,” Courfeyrac shrugs. Enjolras nods.

“Very well, then yes, I have need of you.”

He rises, slowly, to come around the table. Courfeyrac takes the man into his arms, folding him into an embrace and running a tender hand through the curls Enjolras wears so short these days. Oh, how they used to reach down all the way to his rear, how Courfeyrac would have longed to draw them if he had been blessed with even an ounce of artistic talent. They aren’t soft anymore either, they are stiff with salt crystals carried in the breeze and tangled by the wind. But the man still smells the same; even when they were introduced Enjolras had the scent of rebellion lingering on his skin.

(Back then it manifested in the sharp, manly cologne he chose to douse himself in, the most fitting and accessible form of rebellion – before other doors were open to young Enjolras. Now, it is less heavy, but laced with sweat and gunpowder, and altogether still induces the same fondness in Courfeyrac.)

“It was necessary, what we did today.”

“It was,” Courfeyrac agrees easily, “But it sits no easier on my conscience than it does on yours. We have come too far now to let any lingering reservations foil our ambitions. You know it as well as I do.”

“And come the morning,” Enjolras recites freely, “Repentant tears will have washed out the stain of guilt. It is an old habit, one I cannot shake, this horror that accompanies such decisions.”

“I hold, now as I always do, that a case for your humanity, your turmoil makes.”

“Quite wrong, dear friend.”

“Am I?”

For a fleeting breath, Courfeyrac fears that Enjolras has crossed a line within himself, one that has severed the tether between the man and a heart he knows to be good and noble. But when he feels Enjolras exhale against him, he knows the man to be laughing.

“You are holding my person, not a case.”

“Ah, he jokes in the wake of battle? Truly, what depths has this former angel descended to?" They share a laugh, interrupted by a knock on the door that also serves to interrupt their embrace. Monsieur Combeferre enters at Enjolras’ behest. It is swiftly agreed that Courfeyrac’s cut must be seen to, and so he rids himself of his shirt – one he will have to see about mending in port, he no longer owns a wide variety of garments – to sit, torso bent over Enjolras’ desk as Monsieur Combeferre cleans his wound and discusses Enjolras’ findings.

“Three times it says in here that his captors in New London used fire on him, when the lash proved to have no noticeable effect,” Enjolras sighs, “Among other things, though it seemed his spirit was not quite present – the soldier responsible for this report believes someone may have given him laudanum, hoping to loosen his tongue and thus interfering with the interrogation. In any case none of their strategies seem to have had the desired results.”

In all likelihood not meaning to interrupt, Monsieur Combeferre achieves it nonetheless by way of an errant noise, signaling skepticism.

“Is it his wound?”

“Courfeyrac’s wound warrants optimism, fret not. Rather it is the absence of any of the wounds you just described to me on the body of our would-be prisoner that confounds me.”

“How do you mean?” Enjolras probes.

“Well, the byproducts of the torture you described do not disappear within a few days at sea; healing powers many a poet might prescribe to it notwithstanding. A man subject to whippings and fire will feel the pain of it for much longer – weeks, sometimes, and in rare cases for the rest of his mortal life. But save for the rather obvious gash on his neck that ended him, I could find no such wounds on him.”

“Is there no chance that he might have healed from the torture?”

“Oh, to be sure there is a chance, however slight, but in that case I ought to have found at least some scarring administered by the lash, which I did not. Now that is already a strange sight to come across in a man of the Royal Navy, and I admit to some surprise at it, but in a prisoner that recently endured interrogation, as they euphemistically elect to call it? Why, I would swear on knowledge itself that it is as impossible as it is to lose one’s head and live to the age of eighty.”

“What if an eighty year old man should be liberated of his head?” Courfeyrac throws in, to be contrary.

“You know well what I mean, Courfeyrac. The saying does not translate exceedingly well.”

It is Monsieur Combeferre’s frequent excuse, though he has never shared what tongue he might be translating from. Courfeyrac glances over his shoulder, to where the man is still working some ointment into his skin. “I do not mean to imply that you were neglectful in your search, Courfeyrac, but you too must admit that this situation we find ourselves in is rather strange. Either the torture documented has been vastly exaggerated to give the impression the Crown’s deputies did their level best to make the man talk, or the man we found was not the prisoner we seek.”

“You believe the traitor to be elsewhere?”

“I do not see why they would merely pretend to torture a man, when I know them to show no reluctance, faced with the task of doing unspeakable harm to their fellow beings. Logic would induce a man to make the conclusion you have reached, Captain. Did Courfeyrac not voice concern for the possibility of a decoy when we discussed this last?”

“Courfeyrac did,” Courfeyrac sighs under the pressure of Monsieur Combeferre’s inspecting hands, “However, the English Captain certainly believed he was transporting the right man.”

“Is it at all possible the ship was not informed she had the wrong man? A blind of a sort would serve to ensure confusion in the event of capture, would it not? I did not perceive the man to be exceedingly bright, if I allow myself to speak ill of the dead. Personally I do not think I would have chosen him for a task so precarious, if all the Royal Navy were at my disposal.”

Courfeyrac’s thought had taken a similar direction, when he first beheld the enemy Captain early this morning.

“Gentlemen,” Enjolras interrupts the thoughtful stare Courfeyrac has found himself caught in. “What interests me is what this revelation means for our strategy, going forward. You may carry on this discussion past the final candle mark, and I know the two of you to be very capable of the feat, but what fruit will it bear?”

“I’ll seek out my contact in Nassau again. Perhaps she may tell me more. Until then, I fear we are helpless to do anything but wait it out.”

“Not quite, I don’t think,” Enjolras gestures towards the collected documents of the traitor’s case. “It bears further study yet, and in turn might reveal something of use beyond this soldier’s rather favorable opinion on forceful interrogation.”

Monsieur Combeferre has finished wrapping the cut across Courfeyrac’s back, though he suggests waiting for a bit before donning his waistcoat once more. The shirt will have to do for tonight, then. The men outside are sure to be in lighter garments still, it will not be noticed.

“Well then, Captain, if you have no further need of me, I think I shall go and see to the men’s spirits, and that their cups may be equally filled with them.”

∞

**April 17 th, 1718, the Free Port of Nassau, Caribbean**

Finding one’s feet simultaneously more soaked than they have been during weeks at sea and finally back on solid ground that does not shift of its own accord is overpowering at first, but Courfeyrac confidently wades through the shallow onto the beach, pulling some of their cargo in the rowboat behind him. Before him, the beach is alive and loud, many a figure coming and going, conducting business or soliciting company – another kind of business, if looked at from the right angle.

He would be a fool to call this declining Rome his home, but there is still a reassurance in knowing that these beaches offer respite and security, for the time being. His duties don’t afford him time to marvel at the Capital of their Republic built in defiance of faraway governments, but later tonight, he may well find himself with some time to spare, to be used for that express purpose.

“That’s the _Abaissés_ , I swear to you, I know its colors,” a female voice insists, before calling out to him excitedly.

“Ah, Miss Éponine,” Courfeyrac grins at her, “I would take my hat off to greet you, only it has been brutally victimized by British guns, never to fit to be worn again.”

“It was an atrocious hat,” Éponine tells him bluntly, elbowing the lady next to her in her side and pointing to the next rowboat arriving on the shore. “There’s your brother, see? And your sweetheart too, it seems.”

“Oh thank the heavens,” the red-haired girl gasps, waving at Joseph and Isaac as they approach. Courfeyrac watches her wade towards them, braving saltwater on what looks to be a fine pair of leather shoes for the sake of love, truly a grand gesture. Then he turns once more to Éponine: “Speaking of brothers…is yours underfoot?”

“He’s bound to be around these parts, or you’ll find him where he’s always to be found.”

Courfeyrac passes her the customary welcome tax that has been established between them for a few years now – because Courfeyrac appreciates a familiar face welcoming him upon reaching the shore, and Miss Éponine prefers a way of earning coin on her feet rather than by begging, if it is possible – and soon enough Éponine weaves back into the busy crowd waiting to welcome the other returning men, disappearing swiftly. It was a short greeting today, the last time he arrived she deigned to accompany him to their buyer, and all the way to the brothel doors. But the girl has her other duties, and Courfeyrac cannot expect her to wait any longer for the small sum he imparts on her. Still, it is a nice arrangement they have, he maintains. If Miss Éponine is waiting for him on the beach, a sufficient status quo remains intact in Nassau.

For a second he wonders if perhaps Petit Lard has someone waiting for him here or if their man that was lost on the nets does, someone moved by true sentiment, but there are no wails to be heard, and soon he has to be off, and so pushes such thoughts from his mind.

∞

The sun has begun to set over Nassau by the time he locates the boy, lounging on the steps of the old brothel, one of the very few buildings on the island that has managed to withstand three successive destructions of the city around her. Courfeyrac thinks it fitting, that this house of ill repute ought to be what endures in their little safe haven. A testament to man’s eternal debauchery, cynical tongues might call it. His Captain calls it an obstacle to be removed. Many a night he has argued the case of those he calls their ‘fallen sisters’ with Monsieur Combeferre, who maintains that under the guidance of a good and willing Madame uncompromised by the greed that plagues men, a brothel may well lend itself to the purpose of a safe haven for any woman that might choose this path in life, allows Enjolras, again and again, to lead him back into this discussion. Courfeyrac prefers a rather more proactive approach in assuring himself these women are doing well.

From his position, Gavroche has a clear view of the road leading up from the beach. Few men can boast that power does not go to their heads, and sometimes Courfeyrac thinks little Gavroche ought to take his own youth into account, so as not to overreach his capacity. He looks supremely confident on his elbows, whistling at Courfeyrac in greeting when he makes his way over.

“Have you heard?”

“I hear many things, truthfully. You ought to be more specific.”

“They’ve offered everyone pardons,” Gavroche spits, a finely-honed talent, grinning once more when he is satisfied with the arc of his projectile. It is only straw the boy chews, the whores make sure of it, but he has somewhat improved his aim since Courfeyrac saw him last.

“The British Crown, you mean? I thought ‘we piss on anything they offer us and take what they refuse to give up’?”

Late last year, when news of a newly appointed governor reached the shores of Nassau, Gavroche had aimed well and true to fulfill the oath he swears by on the poor official bearing the news. These pardons, however, were not mentioned then.

“Lots’a people round these parts are talking ‘bout it, is all,” Gavroche shrugs, “New letters arrived sayin’ anyone that ‘as something to say ‘bout an escaped traitor to the crown round these parts gets rights to a coupl’a acres along with the fancy little pardon. It was strange, seeing the man address this to a tavern full of traitors, and many laughs were shared on his account.”

“Escaped traitor, you say?”

“Oh, you’ve had no news reach you at all in the last few weeks, have ya? Walk with me, Monsieur Courfeyrac, I know some more things you’ll want’a know.” Gavroche gets up, dusts off his pants, coming apart at the threads, already a spot too short for him. Courfeyrac cannot believe how much the boy grows while they are at sea, sometimes. It is as though someone were deliberately stretching him, for his limbs grow ever ganglier and his frame could almost be considered lanky at this point.

“There’s a merchant ship that was supposed ta be carryin’ a condemned man from the Colonies way up North, was supposed ta meet at a secret rendezvous spot with another ship and make an exchange, only it never showed, did it? The ship that was supposed ta receive the prisoner all daring-like in the middle of the ocean searched the area for two days and found no one, is what I heard.”

“And where did you come upon these news?”

“Coupl’a old fishermen that appreciated my fetchin’ them some refreshments, is all. I’m a hard man to keep secrets from, ain’t I? Nothin’ of note gets past me, Monsieur Courfeyrac, does it?”

They walk the busy street of Nassau in the setting sun. Occasionally a smaller child runs up to Gavroche to whisper in his ear, immediately on their way again once a message has been passed. Before he thinks to ask where Gavroche is taking him, Courfeyrac recognizes the path to the Gillenormand mansion. Gavroche grins up at him when Courfeyrac cannot hide his amusement.

“It’s where ya need to be to sell your cargo, right?”

“You clever boy,” Courfeyrac would reach out to ruffle his hair, if he did not think the boy would try to gut him for it. A feral cat may appear as sweet as one that roams a house, but he who seeks to pet it shovels his own grave in the end. “I still need your help with something.”

Those words are some of Gavroche’s favorite.

“We picked up a new man for our crew on our journey. His hair is dark and his beard is substantial, you shall spot him easily. I need you to help me keep an eye on his comings and goings, if you would, and report back to me.”

“When I find it out his deepest, darkest secrets, can I join your crew in his stead?”

“Absolutely not,” Courfeyrac sobers, frowning down at Gavroche, who in turn glares up at him. It would be intimidating, if the thought of a child on a pirate ship didn’t turn Courfeyrac’s stomach entirely upside down. Such a notion cannot even begun to be entertained. Pleasant visions of teaching Gavroche how to steer a ship or to read the stars swiftly morph into the fearful, bloodcurdling screams of a child as the boy flies over the railing, or is crushed underfoot in battle, or – heaven forbid – is captured along with the rest of the crew and taken to be hanged.

Courfeyrac goes on bended knee in front of the child, holding his shoulders firmly.

“When you can reach past my shoulder, we can talk about it again. Your many talents are wasted on board a dirty ship.”

Gavroche narrows his eyes at him. For a second Courfeyrac thinks a wad of spit and straw is about to land in his face, but Gavroche only nods and weasels away, to appear out of thin air again at a later time. He watches the alley the kid disappeared into for a while longer, taking a few deep breaths to dispel any lasting horrors that the prospect of children as witnesses to battle always conjures into his mind.

∞

As he sits in the Gillenormand bureau, Courfeyrac regrets not having taken more time to look after his cleanliness. That is not to say he is radically dirty – no, Courfeyrac would go as far as saying that, aside from their surgeon, he, more than of all the crew, cares to wash himself most frequently. But there is a layer of grime that builds up on anyone after years of seafaring, and only several rough scrubs in brass bathtubs full of boiling water and hard sponges would truly wash it off.

Monsieur Gillenormand has a bathtub of the sort, or else he has an equally potent alternative that allows him to appear so well made-up and powdered, even in the heat his skin is matte and free of the sweat that plagues the rest of the folk here. It is almost pleasantly cool in the room, now that the sun has set fully. The candlelight lends itself well to business negotiations, Courfeyrac has always thought. There is an inimitable ambience to it.

“Your captain did not feel the need to be present during these negotiations?”

“As always, he recuses himself. His work on the ship, it seems, is never done, and the two of us, I dare say, have already established a good relation, have we not? I see no reason to bring him along in such a case.”

Monsieur Gillenormand smiles as he always does, in a manner that his teeth are never revealed. Courfeyrac does not doubt it is deliberate, for he has seen his dentures, and they are awful things. Certainly his own teeth have suffered from a life of piracy, but they have not failed him yet. Age, however, more than anything else, is the inevitable downfall of each man, and so he resigned himself to it long ago. Some men though, he finds, refuse to acknowledge their own decay, seek to hide it, and in turn make a mockery of youth and beauty. He remembers that to be a fashionable practice at the French court. The smell of powdered wigs and cloying perfume, of lavender stuffed in corsets and handkerchiefs doused in floral oils is easy to recall even years later, though the smell Monsieur Gillenormand emanates may simply be quite helpful in that task.

“Dreadful though, is it not? What is to happen?”

“I do not follow…”

“That this partnership, profitable as it is, must come to an end so soon.”

“I do not take your meaning, Monsieur,” Courfeyrac keeps his voice even. If Gavroche had not walked with him, he would be caught entirely more off-guard, he supposes. Still, it throws him a little. He had not expected the old man to so quickly give up his life's work. Granted, the offers are tempting, but is it not a matter of principle to fight for what one has created?

“These pardons issued by England…surely, a young man, such as yourself, will accept one? You are French, yes, but there is little King Louis may do to a man in Nassau pardoned by those who will control it, come the New Year. You have a life ahead of you, Monsieur Courfeyrac. You cannot mean to tell me that piracy is what you wish to give your life for? The very thought is ludicrous!”

“Indeed. One should always have a plan for one’s life, Monsieur…, and though there are quite noble things a man may die for, the pursuit of another man’s cargo is not chief among them.” Courfeyrac assures him.

“Do you know…my grandson’s ship ought to have arrived today? Instead it was only the _Abaissés_ that rode into harbor, I am told. I think…Monsieur Courfeyrac, I think I must do something I have not done in years tonight before I rest my head – I must pray for his safe arrival. The delay has unsettled me, and you know better than anyone how treacherous those waters may be, how beguiling the blue of it, promising no harm and in the next moment tearing ships apart with unparalleled force…Ah, forgive me, you do not want to hear an old man ramble about his fears. You have silk for me this time, from what I have been told?”

The silk sells well. Courfeyrac is almost tempted to ask the man if he has been given a particularly good bargain out of some sudden turn of sentiment, but he takes himself to be a man of Troy tonight, not willing to look this particular gift horse in the mouth.

As opposed to other fencers on the island, Monsieur Gillenormand is fair and less of a swindler by half, but he is not a man of generous nature. And with silk that will no doubt be recognized as stolen, requiring a fee to keep the right people silent, it seems unlikely that he should offer so much.

It is the work of these pardons, the overwhelming feeling in the air that change is coming, yet to be seen whether it will count as a blessing or a curse, set to arrive within the next quarter year, if this Mister Rogers’ ship does not suffer the wrath of the tides.

Courfeyrac knows which fate he hopes shall befall the governor’s vessel.

∞

On his way back down to the beach and their little camp, Courfeyrac crosses paths with Monsieur Raleigh, and engages him in conversation.

“Are you for the brothel then?”

“It would appear that I am,” the man agrees pleasantly. “Your sailing master and Boatswain await my presence, and I await the promise of ale, though I am told half the glass is customarily filled with piss in Nassau.”

“That would be the bargain you make at the tavern with Monsieur Thénardier upon entering. Wise men do not accept his hospitality,” Courfeyrac grins.

“Strange customs are bountiful in this Republic, but I thank you for the warning.”

“Monsieur Raleigh, one more thing-”

“Please, I much prefer to simply be R.”

“Very well then, R?”

“Quartermaster?”

“Wash yourself first, you smell something awful, and the ladies in there can afford to be picky if they wish.”

“I’ve been reliably informed that one can procure a bath within these walls,” R strokes the brothel for emphasis, “Trust me when I say I would not go to bed with myself either, at the moment. Or perhaps ever, but money does do a great deal to sweeten the awful fate my face presents.”

Nods are exchanged, and Courfeyrac continues his walk, spotting Gavroche slip into the brothel behind Monsieur Raleigh. Now, he thinks, he may take his time and wait a little.

∞

Monsieur Combeferre is asleep on his pallet, a book open on his chest. He has bathed, from the look of it, and has finally exchanged the bloodied shirt for a newer, cleaner one. Next to him, the bloodied shirt is soaking in a tincture that is slowly lifting the stain from it, and a needle and thread look ready to be used. Courfeyrac himself has some mending to do, though he may very well offer some housewife a few coins for it. Once Enjolras promised to teach him the most necessary of stitches, but they have never gotten around to it. It does not take a smart man to guess why Monsieur Combeferre is so capable of mending his own clothes, if he mends men on a daily basis.

From the looks of the tome rising with each expansion of Monsieur Combeferre’s lungs, it is a new one, likely freshly purchased. The surgeon does not have quite the same extensive list of tasks to complete as the Quartermaster, but all of his seem to be completed, given that the Captain hands him a roll of paper detailing Monsieur Combeferre’s expenses of restocking their medical supply.

Enjolras looks relieved to see him, as do the rest of the men, raising their cups to him or calling out for him to join them. Their agitated chatter tells Courfeyrac that in all likelihood they have heard of pardons dangled in front of their noses. How Monsieur Combeferre manages any rest while the air so buzzes is another thing about him Courfeyrac cannot grasp.

“What have you told them?”

“That every man willing to accept such a pardon would be free to do so, but that he ought to find another crew in the interim, as I will not suffer someone abandoning us in the thick of it, when it suits him.”

“And have any of them left us?”

“Not so far, no, but we have only just arrived in port and it is no secret that our way of life is at risk as well as a great risk in itself,” Enjolras continues to frown at nothing in particular. “How did it go with old Gillenormand?”

“A very good deal was struck, if I dare say so.”

Enjolras regards their profits for a while longer, his tongue wetting his lower lip swiftly. Courfeyrac can pinpoint the very second he realizes the sum Gillenormand has offered them, for his brows lift, and he lets out a slow, considering breath.

“The men will be pleased.”

“As they should be,” Monsieur Combeferre, it seems, has been alert this entire time. Perhaps he has merely been resting his eyes. Or else their conversation awoke him, and heaven knows the man deserves a full night of sleep. “I don’t imagine either of you has failed to consider what the second clause in the Crown’s offer means for us?”

Courfeyrac’s eyes sweep the beach, but the men are huddled in groups at a distance from their tent that they will not overhear what is promptly to be discussed.

“They must have drafted it before the traitor had ever been captured,” Enjolras shrugs, “It has little bearing on whether or not we had the right dead man, does it not? There is something that rubs me wrong about the whole of this, I feel as though I am staring the answer to our conundrum in the face and yet remain blind as ever to it.”

“It is no secret that piracy is something many Kings wish to eradicate now that it no longer serves a valuable purpose to them, but I have already heard rumors, flying around that the prisoner was traveling from Connecticut. We have nothing to show for ourselves but a few logs and reports, and even those will be useless if our purpose is revealed. How long do you imagine it will take until the right men realize that we were deliberately tracking him? How do you propose we carry on with a plan that, for the time being, demands absolute anonymity then?”

Courfeyrac has no answer for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -The quote Enjolras recites is by Saint Augustine, and mostly I picked it because a nearby island was called St. Augustin at the time and I thought it fit well. 
> 
> -A man o' war, in the traditional sense that this vessel they're using is either a frigate or a galleon in this 18th century setting - more likely a frigate than galleon at that - had a top speed of about 9 knots. Taking terrible weather entirely out of the equation (I haven't been able to find out the weather in the carribbean in April 1718, sorry), and them being a two day journey away from New London, I added those two days onto the calculated time for those 1029 nautical miles from New London to Nassau, which was 4 days and 18 hours. So I feel confident saying they took about a week to arrive back in Nassau after burning the ship. Thank you for your attention lol. 
> 
> -Ah, Laudanum... its potent ingredient is more commonly known as Opium (Ye olde English "Milk of the Poppy" for the flower its derived from) and Laudanum was the result of mixing Opium with wine, result of some Experiments by Paracelsus in the 16th century. This guy thought he'd discovered the Tincture of Youth, and up until the twentieth century this stuff was prescribed left right and Center. It's also really addictive (Opium wars in China, anyone?) and was entirely too accessible, especially in England, where it was taxed as medicine instead of alcohol and therefore also cheap. Sooo many famous White people were Laudanum addicts (Samuel Taylor Coleridge, Thomas de Quincy, Wilkie Collins, etc.)  
> -Opioids work to reduce pain by binding to the Body's own Opioid receptors - for those mythical Endorphins everyone is always chasing - and effecting the same changes in the Body. (This also means Opium addicts are at a high risk for constipation because intestinal motility is considerably slowed - nowadays, in morden times, a doctor might prescribe Morphine precisely because of this effect, because terminal stage Cancer patients often suffer from intense diarrhea as the result of chemo!)
> 
> -"Nassau" as a colony was destroyed three times over. Initially it was named Charlestown (in honor of Charles II, you know, the one who restored the monarchy in England after the Cromwell Republic Interim), first in 1684, by a French/Spanish fleet. Nassau was rebuilt in 1687, was now named Nassau, after William II of Orange-Nassau, who reigned over the Netherlands and was also King of England, Scotland and Ireland (he reigned with his wife, Queen Mary II, after her father James II was ousted from the throne. William outlived Mary, but they had no living children to succeed them, and then along came Queen Anne, whom we have talked about in the context of the Spanish War of Succession already.  
> Nassau was once more destroyed in 1695 because the pirate problem kept resurfacing, this time just by the Spanish fleet, but once more they rebuilt the city. Finally it was once more destroyed in 1703, French-Spanish again. It didn't curb the pirate problem, and from 1706 onwards they essentially controlled the entire thing. In 1716 Blackbeard declared it a republic. 
> 
> -Britain decided that action must be taken and so she declared Woodes Rogers, himself an ex-pirate, Governor of the place. But he only started his journey to Nassau on the 11th April in 1718, so I feel rather confident declaring that he isn't at the island yet.


	3. On Being a Stranger in a Foreign Port and Preparations to be made before a Journey

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This went up earlier than intended because @Shitpostingfromthebarricade is a wonderful Cheerleader so thx.

**April 18 th 1718 – On the Beach of Nassau, Capital City of the Pirate’s Republic**

When Courfeyrac awakes, it is to the sun blinding his eyes, half a mouth full of sand, and a warm hand slung low over his back. His nose is wet, and quickly he finds the cause of that to be an overturned inkpot, already creating a puddle in the sand around him. The source of human warmth turns out to be the crew’s surgeon. Monsieur Combeferre is in deep repose, this time Courfeyrac is certain of it, for there is a spot of drool leaking from his mouth that, had the man his bearings, would not be permitted.

His hand rests directly on Courfeyrac’s skin, his many callouses and ridges speak of a life of backbreaking labor, long before Courfeyrac dove into Charlestown harbor to bring him aboard the Abaissés for the first time. There is unspeakable strength in those hands, and they offer comfort with a simple, most likely unintentional touch.

By nature disinclined to flee from gentle contact, no matter how innocent, Courfeyrac nevertheless stretches his limbs and pushes himself off of the sand they must have fallen asleep on late last night. After Courfeyrac had some drinks with the men he remembers rejoining Monsieur Combeferre in his tent, to offer his opinions on their current situation. He recalls that he may have given them rather loudly – ‘a fucking shit of a conundrum’, if memory serves correctly. But he is glad to note that before laying his head next to Courfeyrac, Monsieur Combeferre must have stowed their documents safely, for he is using them as a pillow.

The sun is not yet high in the sky, but already the sand outside of the shade has heated considerably, and to walk on it without boots proves a challenge. But his feet have had worse, and his leather boots could do without the extra aggravation of saltwater for now.

Courfeyrac makes the short trip to the water as quick as possible to scrub his face, the salt burning his eyes but hopefully ridding him of the ink stain that must have smudged all over his nose. He dunks his head underwater for only a moment, nevertheless gasping when his lungs once more fill with air. How is it that the beach is hot as hell, and yet the water remains ice cold even as the sun bears relentlessly down on them?

“You did not quite get it,” a slurred voice tells him. Given that they habitually make port where once the English ruled with an iron fist, Courfeyrac has improved his vocabulary quite a bit in recent years, but this morning, their newest recruit must deliberately be trying to be unintelligible. It is either intentional mischief or the product of last night’s excess. Courfeyrac gives him a confused look, and the man rubs his own nose, which, now that it is no longer covered in soot and blood as it had been the past week, seems to show evidence of being broken more than once. “Still got some ink there, Mister Quartermaster. Try your luck with your finger nail.” Now his voice is slightly more pulled together, it drags less.

 

“You are up early, considering your drinking companions do not seem for the waking world yet. You disturbed half the camp when you returned.”

Some feet away, Bahorel is on his back on the sand, one foot propped up on a chair, one large arm pillowing his head, the other resting contentedly on his stomach. The tan skin of his face is not so prone to sunburns, but nonetheless Courfeyrac feels it appropriate that he should be moved soon. Continued heat exposure is bound to drive any man mad, even if his skin withstands the onslaught.

“If by half the camp you mean we disturbed the Captain then yes, I suppose we did. He did retire much earlier than the crew.”

“It is his habit if he can afford to.”

“I do not know how any captain sleeps serenely,” this Monsieur Raleigh – no, R, Courfeyrac remembers he prefers that moniker – confesses. “All day he obsesses over maps and the pursuit of riches, while he must worry that, should they grow dissatisfied with him, the crew will simply vote to dispose of him. To have that hanging over your head at all times, and then have so very little time to unwind? I would not wish it on anyone.”

“You have not been long in Nassau – perhaps when Captains Teague or Bonnet next make land here, you might see what staggering amount of excesses some of them partake in. Pray you never witness Captain Vane unwind, that is truly a spectacle.”

“It is just Captain Enjolras then who does not find the time to look after his own needs?”

“He spends the free time he is afforded otherwise, as is his prerogative. If the mood so took him he could very well avail himself to a whore – though in all the years I have known him it has not once taken him.”

“The man seems awfully young to already practice the habits of an old priest,” R sighs, splashing salt water onto his own face. His dark hair grows long, and curls when wet, Courfeyrac notes. R sweeps half of it back into a length of leather that he must have procured yesterday or else cut from some garment, though he does not seem to have done anything for his beard, that mop of scruff and knotted curls. Still, the man’s apparent strength is not lost on Courfeyrac. It is clear to see in the bulge of his arms as he works his hair back. Here is a contender for Bahorel’s title of champion in the crew’s arm wrestling tournaments.

“He only looks to be young. Do not make the mistake other men have, of conflating a youthful appearance with naiveté.”

“I would not dream of it,” R grins, “Only, I thought I should make the observation that I believe he may benefit from a relaxing night with a willing lady…or a man. I hear they do not care to hang anyone for sodomy here, they do not even persecute it. Should that be his preference, he would find himself well-served in Nassau.”

It is a brazen thing to say, and a laughably transparent attempt to garner information. Courfeyrac will not be led into this merry dance so early in the day.

“How fares the cut on your hand?”

R demonstrates by flexing his palms, the scab holding fast. It does look to be healing well.

“Excellent. Then as our Eagle remains incapacitated for the morning, I would have you start fixing the sails.”

Monsieur Raleigh, for the duration of a few drawn-out seconds stares at him in disbelief. Oh, Courfeyrac knows him to be at least equally incapacitated. The man is clearly suffering the effects of overindulging in spirits last night, and ordinarily Courfeyrac prefers to see discipline but does not punish men for what they imbibe on their own time. Only, this man seems to require a lesson not to pry into the life of his captain, and Courfeyrac thinks this rebuke is the gentlest he may give without being explicit.

To his credit, R nods, and whistles a signal to have one of the rowboats wait for him.

∞

“He is agile, I will admit as much,” Enjolras says, about three quarters of an hour later, once they have joined the skeleton crew on the ship to oversee the maintenance repairs. The English cannons, newer that they were, managed to do serious damage to their hind mast and the netting, the repair of which is hard work. It is why he has sent R up to the sails, for his cut would immediately reopen, were he to try pulling the knots tight again. Charles is working on that right now, and doing a spectacular job of grunting about being singled out for this task. But he’ll be mollified when in half an hour more, Courfeyrac will send him off to pursue whatever takes his fancy. In all likelihood, it will be the brothel. That is the most challenging part of being Quartermaster, reading the moods of every man on their crew – how far might a man be pushed? When is a complaint made good-naturedly? When does it hide deeper discontent? It is a constant game of strategy.

His Captain has his face tipped to the sky, eyes once more squinting, and Courfeyrac immediately knows who he is talking about. “Is there a reason he has the knife between his teeth rather than at his belt? That is rather an unusual sight.”

“Less likely to fall out, perhaps? I think it is fair to say that the man has more experience of being up there than either of us, let us not question his methods.”

It is true, R has been fixing their sail without break since Courfeyrac sent him up there, cutting and rethreading without needing to be shown how. They could have done much worse in picking a replacement.

“His progress is acceptable, that is what matters, I suppose.”

“To be frank I am astounded he has not dropped onto the deck yet, from what I have observed he has not as much as staggered up there. That is strength easy to admire.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Why, because I sent him up there with massive hangover, did you not notice, Enjolras? You should have seen him when he was washing himself, he looked half dead.”

The vaguely pleased look changes quickly into one of distaste. It is quite amusing to witness. Enjolras does not voice it, but his opinion on men who would waste their days at the bottom of a bottle is well-known, not just to Courfeyrac but the entirety of the crew.

“Then why would you send him up there?” Enjolras wonders, breezily, interrupting their conversation briefly to remind Feuilly of the extra care their oldest cannons require.

“He was asking questions about you,” Courfeyrac explains, “It was mutually understood as a rebuke. I did not expect him to go without complaint.”

“But he did – what does that lead you to conclude?”

“Perhaps sometimes idle curiosity is just that, but you should know he believes you ought to take some time with a demoiselle to relax, or, and I quote him loosely here: a man, since they do not condemn sodomy in our Republic.”

“Is that so?” Enjolras raises one blond brow, once more turning his face towards where R is climbing around. “What say you to that, Courfeyrac?”

“Some men seem to require the relief, you have never given me any indication that you long for it. Though, be assured, if you had need of it and a bedmate you trust--”

“You would offer me your services?” Enjolras’ short laugh is more animal than man, “The days of conjugal duties are long behind you. I thought we were agreed on that?”

“Hardly a duty, do not do yourself the discredit. A service to my closest friend is no burden, but I take your meaning well, Enjolras.”

If they were alone now, Courfeyrac would perhaps tuck that singular curl he has found to be supremely adept at escaping any queue behind Enjolras’ ear and remind him that ten years removed from his virginal wedding bed, Enjolras is no less enticing than he was then, perhaps more so now that he has grown into himself, but it would serve only to bring an infuriated blush to the man’s cheek and a diatribe for his teasing, so Courfeyrac does not say so. It is not just the crew’s moods he reads, though he is more apt at that, even after knowing Enjolras most of his life.

What this restraint means, he supposes, is that he understands why Monsieur Raleigh seems so suddenly taken by their Captain. Courfeyrac concedes that for those so inclined, Enjolras presents an alluring target, difficult to resist. He only hopes that Monsieur Raleigh does not get it into his head to pursue the matter further – that could present dangers for everyone involved.

“I appreciate your offer for what it is, Courfeyrac,” Enjolras says, eyes forever following the man dancing around on the mast, “But you were quite right in your assessment of me not needing such comforts.”

∞

The midday sun at last makes R give in to exhaustion, and he descends the mast, knife clamped firmly between his teeth. Courfeyrac calls him over, and he notices quickly that the entirety of the man’s dark green shirt is drenched in sweat. It is a good thing he tied his hair back, though that too has a wet air about it now.

“I’d say we are about halfway done, with that sail, but I’d rather not require the Doctor to stitch me up, so I’ll continue later, if the Quartermaster is agreed?”

“Your shift ended an hour ago,” Courfeyrac informs him, “Ménard here has been content to sit on his ass and not relieve you, but he ought to be on his way up now.”

The aforementioned man passes a tankard of ale into R’s hand, claps him on his shoulder good-naturedly, and begins the long climb up the mast.

“And you did not think to tell me so?”

“Did life with the Royal Navy not clue you in to the existence schedules and work rotations?” Enjolras wonders, crossing his arms. Monsieur Raleigh looks from Courfeyrac to the Captain.

“No Captain, in my experience they simply set tasks they expected you to finish. Such coordination did not seem to cross their minds, though that may simply have been because the ship you caught was full of cunts.”

Enjolras tenses just slightly at the brazen use of the expletive, but masterfully hides his feelings on the matter. “Have you no lingering sense of loyalty to the men you sailed with, then?”

“They’re dead now, and I am alive. It hardly matters, does it?”

R lifts the tankard in a mockery of a toast and then drinks deep, emptying the thing in one go. He slips the knife that had previously been between his teeth into his belt.

“You will find, Monsieur Raleigh, that our ship is not run with the same methods of the Navy. If I form the opinion that you would betray the crew at the first opportunity that presents itself, you will swiftly find yourself removed from it. I value loyalty in my men.”

“And how can I expect to be removed, Captain, in such a case? A swift dispatch by bullet, or do you mean to maroon me? I’d like to know, so I may form an appropriately deep attachment to the crew members.”

“I think it best, for the moment, if you did not know, Monsieur. I find that a small bit of uncertainty works wonders in producing the desired results, so that you might not even begin considering a betrayal.”

Courfeyrac leans back against the railing and observes the two men observing one another. Enjolras, being uncommonly tall for someone of his width, must look down upon R a little. The sailor’s shoulders, however, span nearly twice as wide as the Captain’s. It does not look as though they plan to cease their stares anytime soon.

“I think that urchin must be whistling for you, Mister Quartermaster,” Ménard calls from the mast. From the telescope, he can just make out Gavroche, on Bahorel’s shoulders, whose arms are waving wildly.

∞

Gavroche makes the urgency of his presence known further by imitating a rather squeaky bird, until Courfeyrac gives the signal that he has heard him, and will be on his way swiftly. It is past mid-day now, and so Courfeyrac leaves the supervision of ship maintenance to the man whose responsibility it inherently is. The Eagle is faring poorly today, but smiling through it as he always does.

“Come now, L’Aigle, you have smiled through worse, I am sure last night cannot have been so bad, if your man R is already working without complaint.”

“He imbibed more than I – it is a wonder he is upright at all, if you ask me,” The Eagle scratches his chin, yawning loudly. “But it is another thing that irks me today, to be truthful.”

“And what is that?”

“Do you remember, some months past, when Musichetta took in a lodger at her estate?”

Courfeyrac, for his part, has never met the fabled Musichetta – she lives quite a fair bit inland, a freedwoman that inherited her old mistresses’ estate when she passed, childless and widowed. But he has heard The Eagle’s rhapsodies to her virtues often enough that he feels, in some way, he knows her already.

“Captain Teague’s young Doctor, if I recall correctly, suffering from a terrible fever.”

“Quite so, that strapping young man…” The Eagle sighs. For a while seemingly lost in thought, he reveals: “Before drinking with R and Bahorel, I paid her a visit, and found the two of them in bed together.”

“Was there bloodshed?” Courfeyrac feels it justified to ask. Such feuds are not as rare as he would hope them to be, and in any case they must be prepared for repercussions. Personally he claims no stake to his lovers' fidelity, and so such feuds evade him, but he knows this is not quite as common as he would have it be.

“No.”

Another heavy sigh, then: “I joined them, upon being invited to do so. He is quite…he is…well I don’t quite know what to make of him, after this. I had not thought him so inclined, if I am honest, nor myself.”

“Well…” Courfeyrac whistles through his teeth, impressed, “If a pleasant evening was passed, then I see not what has you so glum.”

“You do not understand why this would give a man cause to ponder the choices he has made in his life? I am to see them again tonight, and I know my luck to be awful enough that I will not be permitted entry to their bed again. No, last night was already a better turn than I am accustomed to.”

“L’Aigle, my brother,” Courfeyrac claps him on the shoulder, “From what I understand, you have accumulated so much terrible luck these past few years that it demands some recompense, at the very least. Perhaps these two souls will provide that. Now I really must meet Gavroche, or he will speak only in enigmas to irritate me for making him wait.”

∞

“Ya aren’t lookin’ ta be a man eager ta hear a report, are ya?” Gavroche grins at him, sharpening a knife as Bahorel is instructing him to. Bahorel’s shirt is drenched, and he suspects that the overturned tankard of ale might have been responsible for waking him up. It certainly smells that way.

“Bahorel, leave us for a bit, would you?”

Their sailing master, a frighteningly large man with arms the size of anvils, blows residue off his blade, looking up at Courfeyrac. “You got a task for me, Quartermaster, or am I at my leisure?”

“Do as you would,” Courfeyrac waves a hand, “I hear you did not get around to paying your Mistress a visit last night. In fact, I believe half the camp heard you complain about your yearning crotch when you returned to the beach in your cups last night. Promise me that you will never pursue poetry, I beg you.”

“Oh but if you only knew what sweet verses I whisper into the meat of her thighs, you would quite change your tune,” Bahorel grins. Courfeyrac cannot help but reciprocate. Bahorel makes his way up to the streets, followed by many an observant eye.

“What do you have for me, Monsieur Gavroche?”

Gavroche’s tongue sticks out in concentration as he sharpens the knife, diligently squinting at the blade.

“He drank half the brothel dry after he took a bath and some company, is what he did. Not a bad way to pass an evening, but no intrigue or conspiracy underfoot, from what I could tell.”

“Do you know whose company he paid for?”

“lrma.”

By now Gavroche’s knife must be able to cut through bone in one stroke, but he continues, so Courfeyrac supposes the child takes joy in the act, and lets him have at it. This Irma though – Courfeyrac knows her well, she’s a vivacious one, with kind eyes.

“Did you have a chat with her?”

“I did – she called him impossible, though I can’t tell ya what that’s supposed ta mean. Said she took care of his back for him, looked all sad about it, but she wouldn’t tell me if he was any good otherwise. Maybe ya should ask her, Monsieur Courfeyrac.”

“What did she do for his back?”

“Said she used some wrappings and ointments for him, is all. Apparently he had a great many scars, he did.”

Courfeyrac considers what history of the man’s nose he discovered this morning. He has no trouble believing his body may be covered in more than that though.

“Thank you, Gavroche.”

∞

Monsieur Combeferre is checking Isaac’s stump and frowning at it.

“I swear to ye, Doctor, I didn’t agitate it or nothing, not me! I want to get better, don’t I?”

“Did you clean it as I instructed?”

Isaac’s pale face grows considerably paler. “Perhaps not to the letter, see – it takes so long. Ursula said she’d heard you’re supposed to induce the pus, you see? Beneficial for wound healing, she said, read it straight from Galen’s works.”

“I see.” Monsieur Combeferre stands, face frosty. “Well, Isaac, if it is your wish to obey the command of this quack Galen, who, I should mention, practiced over a millennia ago, you are welcome to do so, but there is little guarantee that you will not in consequence lose more of your leg. Joseph, help him to his cot, let him decide how he wishes to proceed.”

The two men take their leave quickly.

“Ah, I live for the anger in your eyes whenever someone mentions the man himself, your long-time nemesis,” Courfeyrac grins, beginning to help Monsieur Combeferre clean his workspace.

“Utter horseshit,” he grits out through his teeth. “The very idea that a production of foul smelling, putrid fluid could be beneficial, when again and again observation has proven that the wounds producing an excess of such things lead to death and those that are kept free of it heal well... it is as though they are willing themselves to be blind despite the mounting evidence. It is beyond me – forgive me, Courfeyrac, you did not come here to hear me rehash what I have preached so often already. What is it?”

“I have had some interesting news from little Gavroche, is all.”

“Well? Do not keep me waiting for it, I beg.”

“Apparently our newest recruit had one of the whores care for him last night,” Courfeyrac begins, but is swiftly interrupted. “Irma, the pretty one, I am sure you have seen her come down to the beach on occasion, so you must be familiar with her, even if you do not solicit her services as other men do.”

“That is hardly news. I should be more surprised if he did not seek out a woman.”

“He paid for a bath, so that she may care for the wounds on his back.”

Monsieur Combeferre stops cleaning, putting down his rag entirely a beat later. “Those wounds were not reported to me.”

“Nor to me. When I asked him if he had seen fighting, he showed me nothing but his hand, which you have seen to…”

“Which begs the question why he would keep further injuries a secret, you mean to say?”

“More pressingly, it begs the question whether his wounds are consistent with, say, the work of a whip.”

“Or perhaps brought about by the use of fire…” Monsieur Combeferre nods, “Yes, I take your meaning. How will we go about finding out if your hypothesis holds up?”

“For the time being, I feel it best that we inform the Captain, do you not agree?”

“That may be the smartest course, only he is unavailable at the moment.”

“And where is he hiding?”

It is true, he cannot spot Enjolras’ blond head anywhere around the camp.

“He has gone to visit the Fauchelevent property, from what I gathered, said he meant to inquire if they had heard of other ships carrying prisoners.”

“Euphrasie did not wish to come down to the beach this time? It is a pity, I quite enjoy her conversation. She is a clever girl.”

“It seems that the last time she came by, Monsieur Thénardier behaved more a scoundrel than the innkeeper he would have us believe him to be. It would seem he threatened her father, and in turn her father has cautioned her against returning unaccompanied. Rumor has it he is considering leaving Nassau behind altogether.”

“What did Thénardier say?”

“I have not been told, the Captain seemingly was not told details either, but he has gone, and I do not expect him to grace us with his presence until sundown at the very least.”

Courfeyrac’s eyes sweep their encampment a second time, finding R returned from the ship, already in the process of regaling some of the crew in a broken mix of English and French. When next Monsieur Combeferre speaks, his voice is low and altogether closer to Courfeyrac’s ear than expected.

“How do you suppose a prisoner kills two men as he escapes and convincingly makes it look as though they were each other’s end?”

“In truth, Monsieur Combeferre, I sleep easier not knowing the details the execution of such a maneuver requires, but you are, of course, welcome to ask him when we have apprehended him. I am sure his insight into the matter is fascinating.”

“I have doubts. Surely you can take as much from my words? No morbid curiosity leads me to ask this question. As I have said it is not uncommon for the Royal Navy to dole out punishment. If the man has drinking habits as well formed as I suspect him to, then I fail to see how it would not result in a regular taste of the whip.”

Still, Monsieur Combeferre continues to stand close. Courfeyrac feels the surgeon’s breath on his neck, warm and yet sufficient to induce goosebumps.

“Of course – but in such a case, would you hide your wounds from those willing to treat them?”

Courfeyrac glances over his shoulder to see grim determination replace skepticism.

“Let us hope the Captain does not prolong his absence any further than necessary.”

∞

The walk to Nassau's busiest street is a fast one, and tonight Courfeyrac makes the trip with a particular sense of urgency that he tries to Keep out of his step.

Altogether it takes him fifteen minutes, once young Azelma ran up to him and tugged on his sleeve to grab his attention. She'd been rewarded with coin and had quickly ran off again, giggling slightly. Now, as Courfeyrac enters the tavern - the one that is _not_ owned by Monsieur Thénardier - some mild apprehension grips him.

“Mister Howard,” Courfeyrac greets the man with a firm shake of hands, taking a seat when indicated. “I had not expected you to request my company, though I am not opposed.”

“Pleasant as your company is, Mister _Courfhayrack_ , it is not solely the reason for my Invitation tonight.”

“I had gathered as much,” Courfeyrac purses his lips, “Shall we get right to it then, or would you have us discuss something else first? The weather, for example, has been lovely these days, has it not?”

Mister Howard’s lips curl upwards. On one side his smile is distorted by scar tissue, the result of a knife being drawn across his cheek in battle. The flesh has healed poorly, knitted together in clumps and uneven lines. But there is something charming about the man despite his rather gruesome appearance.

“There has been much news, in recent weeks, I am certain you have not missed it.”

“No indeed we have not,” Courfeyrac confirms, “How could we have? Thénardier is now daily giving speeches on what a smart man might do, which is to accept a pardon without any intention of honoring it.”

Mister Howard has a long drink.

“The words of an opportunist and a coward, if you don’t mind my saying so – much has changed in Nassau, it seems only Thénardier and his treacherous ways remain reliable. He sang this tune before Captain Pearse strolled into town - and when Vane drove him away, he was quick to shut up. Now that Vane has gone again, he is once more crowing.”

“I quite agree,” Courfeyrac says after swallowing a mouthful of ale. "Though I seem to have missed the part where Captain Vane chased Pearse away. I had been under the impression it was a group effort. Some on the street sing the praises of uniting in the face of a common enemy."

"Has your little informant neglected to tell you? You must have offended him quite a bit - I thought he was fond of you in particular."

"He gave me updates on what he considered essential. Given that this time, it was not him that heroically defied the envoy, I doubt he much cared to share. Then there is the matter that I will not let him join my crew."

"That would draw a young boy's ire, I suppose," Mister Howard grins. "This was around February, to my recollection. The HMS Phoenix showed up in these parts, with that same offer of pardons that has been made again and again, along with that horrible ponce Captain Pearse, who had captured Vane when he and his Jacobite friends refused to take a Hanoveranian pardon."

"I cannot say I expected him to," Courfeyrac admits. He has not had much cause to interact with Captain Vane, but the man has a reputation that does not produce the image of willing subservience.

"Oh, he made a good show of accepting the pardon when Hornigold and Nichols negotiated his release. Less than a month later, his Quartermaster...that Rackham fellow, the one that brings women aboard ships willingly, you know him, surely... quite the eccentric character. Anyway, he got it into his head to try and drive Pearse away, and by the turning of the season Pearse and the Phoenix were quite convinced of the necessity to leave. Currently we do not know where Vane and the crew of the _Lark_ are, but almost daily I receive reports that his fondness of torturing merchants increases steadily."

"And with Vane far away, Thénardier has no one breathing down his neck to induce restraint," Courfeyrac surmises. Mister Howard folds his Hands across his chest.

"Just so. And the man, unfortunately, has a way of swaying the minds of his patrons."

“Whatever Riff raff still foolishly consumes his ale cannot be of sound constitution anyway, and no one should count on them in the coming months, that shall only lead to disappointment. I must inform you though, that Thénardier is not alone in contemplating the benefit of accepting these pardons. Old Gillenormand has said he advocates them.”

“It would make sense for the man to try and legalize his dealings, if the beloved grandson is truly to be groomed to take over his business. A pity the ship carrying him was attacked and burned.”

 

“Was it? I confess I had not heard of that.”

 

“Yes, we took it just a few days ago. Very valuable Cargo, some forty-five fine barrels of rum,” Mister Howard shrugs, “Naturally when he informed us who he was, we took him on board with us. Just half an hour ago I received a very sweet deal for our loot in exchange for returning a beloved grandson unharmed, but the young man has now irreperably developed some mild distaste for our profession, I admit. Yes, I do believe Mister Gillenormand would much prefer to deal with men bound to stricter laws. He is a man that enjoys structure.”

“And what of Hornigold? Have you asked him how he feels about the matter?”

“Benjamin has informed my captain that he intends to accept the pardons, once this new Governor arrives. Have you heard of him? This Rogers was once a pirate around these parts as well. A true success story of what a pardon can make of a man, if you would believe it. If they had chosen a different man for the task, I do not think so many would be content to lower the black.”

“I take it your captain does not intend to take what is offered?”

“I take it neither does yours?”

Mister Howard grins at him expectantly. Courfeyrac shrugs.

“Enjolras has his mind set, as far as I know. You will have enquired with my men already where his public position lies. Else you would not have asked to meet with me.”

“You Frenchmen are too clever by half, are you not?”

They drink to that, share a smile. “It is true. Captain Teach wishes to meet with Enjolras in the coming days. I will send word when he has seen fit to give a time and place.”

"Do inform Monsieur Teague that we shall expect no less."

∞

Enjolras marches onto the beach as the sun finishes setting, throwing his travelling cloak off without ceremony and removing his hat as he ignores the greetings from crew and companions alike.

“Courfeyrac, Combeferre, with me,” he signals, leading them away from the fire they have joined the rest of the crew around. Courfeyrac does not miss R’s eyes, following the Captain’s movements carefully. He does not doubt that one trace of suspicion will have the man try and weasel his way away from them – though where he would ultimately go, on this island, Courfeyrac cannot say. Still, he should not like to risk drawing unnecessary attention to the man and their sudden interest in him.

“She insisted that she knows of no other ship currently transporting prisoners back to England; that this one we burned was supposed to hand the prisoner over to another one, as Gavroche had also heard – so we have nothing else to go on but the documents, and those leave much to be desired. I had expected to partly negotiate my way through treason, and now I must bluff entirely…gentlemen, it is vexing.”

“We have reason to believe we are not entirely out of hope, Enjolras,” Monsieur Combeferre reveals, calmly. “Courfeyrac’s search may have uncovered something after all.”

Enjolras’s curls fly as he focuses his gaze on Courfeyrac. Now that they are back on land, they have softened once more, washed in water that does not leave a crust of salt lingering on the strands.

“It would appear that R has a scarred back.”

“And? As does Combeferre, and L’Aigle. I believe even Feuilly’s shoulders are scarred. It is not uncommon at all, we are all aware.”

“His wounds are fresh enough that they required dressing he neglected to tell the Doctor about when he was being treated for the cut on his hand.”

“Why would he…” Enjolras’ eyes widen. It is that same beautiful sight it always is: “Oh. I see.”

“I believe we may scrap the idea of the man we are looking for being on a different ship, as long as this reasoning does not fall through. If the Crown wished their prisoner to arrive in London in one piece, they would likely not chance throwing him onto one of those floating death traps anyway – the risk that he would talk to other prisoners is too large, for one, and for the other, he would more likely be alive than dead at the end of it, which would leave the crown with no spectacle to make of him. Not to mention that it would explain the English Captain’s surprise to hear the prisoner pronounced dead. Perhaps the crew was not informed of his crimes…”

“We have no proof. What is to say we are not rationalizing this notion because we want desperately for it to be true?” It is Monsieur Combeferre that voices this concern, ever ruled by logic.

“We hardly need proof. Personally, I have no qualms cornering him and seeking out the answers his skin will provide for myself,” Enjolras frowns.

“Do not voice it that way when we go to confront him, I beg,” Courfeyrac snorts.

“If I may,” Monsieur Combeferre throws in, “If we should confront him now it would draw undue attention, the men are all gathered around him, and if our aim is secrecy until the plan is set in motion, then we would do well to isolate him first, from a possible audience. Better we catch him off-guard as he works on the decks tomorrow.”

“Very well,” Enjolras decides, after some consideration. “Tomorrow we shall discover what he has to say for himself.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -William Howard was about 30 years old when he was Blackbeard's Quartermaster - the leading theory goes that he survived the whole 1718 ordeal and later became the owner of Oracoke Island. Apparently he has a LOT of descendants living today. 
> 
> -You will have noticed that the crew of the Abaissés, because they are French, refer to Blackbeard as Captain Teague, rather than the English Teach (Or Thatch as some literature calls him) I do this because I find it fascinating how you used to just translate names into whatever language you spoke. Nowadays you don't really do that anymore.  
> -Charles Vane was one of the few Captains that railed HARD against the offered pardons. No one knows whether he personally had Jacobite leanings (That is to say, whether he was pro-Stuart after George I ascended to the throne) but certainly a lot of the other pirates that refused DID.
> 
> -Until it was rechristened, Charles Vane's flagship was a sloop called the Lark. His quartermaster at this time was the very well-known Jack Rackham, husband of Anne Bonny, perhaps the most famous female pirate. Mary Read, the other well-known female pirate in the Caribbean, was also on his crew. 
> 
> -Long journeys by boat in this era were perilious, especially when traveling on passenger ships or - worse, slave ships - you could reasonably expect between a third and half of the passengers not to survive, due to cramped holds and an utter lack of hygiene on board.


	4. On Swaying Reluctant Sentiment and How Best to Go about Plotting Resistance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I recommend you listen to Samuel Barber's Adagio for Strings when you get to the conversation on Deck Between Combeferre and Courfeyrac, because that was my mood when I wrote it and I think it fits exceptionally well.
> 
> Also: Warning for Combeferre's backstory. It's not very nice. Because 18th century and slavery.

**April 19 th, 1718 – The Beaches of Nassau, Capital of the Pirate Republic**

It is an easy thing to orchestrate, when Courfeyrac considers it. Come the morning, the men are ordered to work on deck and Monsieur Raleigh is ordered into the hold to have a look at their spare ropes, to see what may be used to complete the repair job they began yesterday. A crew may only reliably work until sunset, and then the fabric of the sails becomes hazardous, illuminated by nothing but candlelight, so it could not be brought to an end yesterday, but by the end of today, the Abaissés should be fit to sail out again, if not entirely whole yet. They still have some time more to complete that.

Monsieur Combeferre blocks the entrance of the room they find him working in, and Enjolras, without a trace of foresight as to how he may sound, orders: “Take off your shirt, Monsieur Raleigh.”

Courfeyrac interprets calculation into the way the man holds himself. His broad shoulders stiffen, and he does not turn to face them. A decision is reached, he relaxes slightly to say: “Show me yours, I’ll show you mine, _mon capitaine_.”

It is precisely the wrong thing to say, but Courfeyrac does not attempt to hold the Captain back as he presses the man against the wall of the hold and one of his finer knives to R’s throat, his scraggly beard doing little to lessen the threat it presents.

“You listen to me well, Monsieur, for I will only say this once. If you do not show me your back now I will not hesitate to have you thrown from the ship to fend for yourself in Nassau. Not many of the men on that island would be able to withstand the desire to collect the bounty on your head, and you would find yourself in very dangerous waters indeed. Are we understood?”

Monsieur Raleigh’s eyes are heavy, from what Courfeyrac can make out. There is a measure of defeat in him now when he nods – it reminds Courfeyrac somewhat of an animal that, upon receiving a mortal wound, does not attempt to take anyone else with it, contrary to its own nature. Enjolras steps back just enough to allow the man to draw the shirt over his head, and the revealed sight is awful. The entirety of his back is bandaged when he turns around, but blood and pus have already seeped through the bindings. R determinedly stares at nothing but the ship wall, possibly counting the small holes they have yet to fix.

“Combeferre. Have a look at him, if you would.”

Combeferre approaches with care, his hand hovering over skin, not quite touching. Waiting to be granted permission, even from a man they intend to interrogate.

“Go on then,” the man grits out. Slowly, Combeferre unwinds the bandages, ignoring with a trained mind the hisses of pain his patient makes as he does so. The revealed sight is rather gory. Thick, inflamed lines of welted red skin cross on his back, interspersed with some lumpy, swollen areas, where the skin has split open and peeled off. Courfeyrac has seen such a thing on Feuilly’s arms when he remains in the sun for too long. He did not think it could be deliberately induced. Is there no limit to what men may do to one another?

“These have not been treated as they should have. I fear infection has already set into some of them…”

“I am aware,” R hisses, frustration clear.

Enjolras, to Courfeyrac’s surprise, has been doggedly quiet in answer to the man’s compliance, staring intently at his back. His mouth does not quite hang open, but it is a near thing. Whatever sight he had been expecting, Courfeyrac does not think it is this.

“I mean to ask, Monsieur Raleigh, how on earth have you been continuing to work these past days? It is a miracle you are not delirious with fever, more so that you have been fixing sails.”

“You mean to tell me you, of all people, do not know how to push through such a thing? I find that hard to believe, given what little I know of your history.”

Combeferre’s hand settles on Monsieur Raleigh’s shoulder in a gentle manner. It does not do much to ease the tension, but the man does not draw away from it either. Courfeyrac understands the impulse to still beneath Combeferre’s touch, so as to keep thoughts of lifting his hand far from the man’s mind. With a doctor’s mien, a far cry from the determined would-be interrogator of moments past, he turns to Enjolras: “I cannot treat him down here.”

“Very well,” Enjolras nods before he addresses R: “You must know by now that running is a pointless endeavor. You would do well to follow quietly.”

Mouth but a thin line, R wrestles the shirt back onto his shoulders, stoically placing one foot in front of the other. It is a wonder to see the man so transformed, the tension in his shoulders tenfold what it was just minutes ago. The past few days he had given the Impression of a rather carefree individual. Now Courfeyrac gets the sense he may be preparing himself, and he can hazard a guess what the man thinks they have in store for him, but he does not know how to put him at ease yet.

∞

Enjolras has R take a seat, then wastes no further time, once Courfeyrac has closed the cabin door behind him: “You will tell us what you know. I believe that goes without saying.”

The man looks miserable, and says nothing in response. Enjolras narrows his eyes at him. For a while they seem to be at an impasse.

Then, he speaks.

“Tell me, Captain, what do you mean to do with what I could tell you?”

“That would be of no concern to you, would it not?”

“Given that it is my head on the line, my body to be disfigured and displayed on Tower Bridge, I should imagine it concerns me at least a little bit.”

“Your head, if you cooperate, will be kept safe by virtue of concealed identity. You have come onto this ship under the name Raleigh, and you could easily remain that man,” Enjolras offers. Courfeyrac senses as though this interrogation may be getting away from him just slightly. He has started to bounce his leg behind the desk. R may not have picked up on it yet, but as Courfeyrac risks a glance to the side, he sees Monsieur Combeferre observing Enjolras intently, frowning.

"Never much cared for that name."

“You seem to be under the impression that your bargaining power is much larger than it truly is. I will have answers out of you, I assure you Monsieur…Grantaire, yes? That is your true family name?”

That little detail nearly startles a laugh out of Courfeyrac. A pun! He supposes R must have thought himself to be exceedingly clever when he gave them the moniker to call him by.

“That is hardly an appropriate thing to ask a man that has introduced himself to you by something else, is it not?”

It is almost flippant, and a second afterwards he is already quite sure that Grantaire cannot possibly know how much of an insinuation he just made, but Enjolras’ knee promptly stops bouncing, he goes entirely still. That reaction, inevitable as it was, hands some power back to Grantaire: “You, Captain, will have answers out of me if I decide to give them. If the Royal Navy could not induce me to talk, what good do you think your attempts will do? In any case I think your surgeon can attest that you would have some difficulty putting any instruments to my skin without causing my immediate collapse.”

“Are you so much of a wretch that the chance to effect good on this earth leaves you entirely uninterested?”

“I did not wish for this, if you have studied the documents my captors made you would know that I never meant to come by the information that had fallen into my hands, nor did I ever mean to share what I overheard. What _good_ could what I know now possibly bring about? At most, it will provoke a war, _once more_ , where hundreds will die so that some rich fuck may add another few miles of territory to what he greedily calls his own. Would you call that good? Tell me, Captain, why I should endeavor to assure such a thing comes to pass?"

"In any case," he continues, "They will find a war to fight soon enough without my help or yours. They’ve already begun conquering parts of Spain – this, not even three full years after they made their last treaty swearing friendship and fealty to each other for all the world to witness, but what else had anyone expected of them? I have no interest in feeding that flame. I have no interest in trying to use the knowledge I have. I wish only to live and not suffer too greatly for it. If there was a way to cleanse my mind of all that I have learned these past few months I would not hesitate to wipe these thoughts away.”

“And what if your knowledge could weaken the monarchy so that it may disappear altogether?” Enjolras wonders, leaning across the table. Monsieur Grantaire beholds him, stupefied. “What if, through your knowledge, places could be created outside the reach of Kings and Queens, Lords and Princes, Popes and Emperors, where people live freely and must not feel the crushing weight of someone’s boot upon their back day after day? Is that not a flame you would wish to feed? Does it not call out to you, this idea of change?”

“You foolish man,” he gapes, “Is that what you are attempting here? You would see England once more a Republic? Do you imagine that was a better state of being, when the Puritans ruled?”

"It would be the start, ideally," Enjolras tells him.

"And I imagine France would be next? Have you an idea how you will go about blackmailing King Louis? I am afraid I have not been charged with unintentional treason in his kingdom."

"There is no need for mockery, Monsieur Grantaire," Combeferre's voice carries well in the small room, deep as it is.

“You do not believe mankind to be capable of being more than we are now?” Enjolras, after throwing a grateful look about the room, addresses Grantaire once more.

“I believe nothing but that you have read too much utopian philosophy, to manage to entirely ignore mankind’s natural inclination to be awful. Is not Monsieur Combeferre's own history testament enough to that? Do you imagine it was King George who put shackles on him by royal decree? No, I did not think so. More sinister forces than rulers drive men to such abominable actions, and these things cannot be changed merely because someone with a dedicated and overactive imagination dreams them into existence.”

“If you believe in nothing as you claim to, Monsieur Grantaire, then I fail to see what you stand to lose by letting those who would attempt to effect change have at it.”

“Perhaps nothing, except that I do not much desire to see you martyr yourself. It is no use, Captain, is all. You are setting yourself up for either tremendous disappointment or the gallows by conspiring in such a manner. If you believe Cromwell as a ruler was more just or refused to pursue his own interest in favor of the common good while England called herself a Republic, you are deluding yourself. A man may be good and just his entire life, if such concepts can be applied to mankind, but once power is handed to him he will turn his back on the goals he strove to achieve before.”

“And so because you believe it cannot be done you would stop anyone from making an attempt?”

Courfeyrac watches R take a deep breath, his hands digging into the flesh of his thighs, anchoring himself. “I’ll not provide you with the means to your own downfall. They will pursue you relentlessly for it, once you have blackmailed them, as I assume you mean to do, for they will figure out the origins of such a plot, and you will all be hanged for it – perhaps, that is to say, if the sentences are commuted, otherwise you face additionally being drawn through the streets and dismembered in front of a crowd that jeers you for having ever believed them to be capable of being better. You are the Captain of _one_ ship, and you would be facing not only the entirety of the Royal Navy, but I believe their French and Dutch Allies as well. You must know that while they may engage in petty squabbles over what territories they perceive to be theirs, each of them has a vested interest in maintaining the right amount of order in the other’s domain. Surely you know that, Captain?”

“Is that your final say on the matter, Monsieur Grantaire?”

“You may call me a coward for this, and I freely admit that bravery has never been something attributed to me, but yes. I will have no part in this, you may believe that. You may very well just kill me before this infection takes me, I promise you it will make as little difference as your great plans.”

“Kill you? I think not. I try not to make a habit of murder, and I have no jurisdiction over your life, pitiable though it may be.”

“You will wait for the infection then? I suppose that is more befitting of your cruelty.”

“You think me cruel?” Enjolras’ brows knit together. Courfeyrac would clamp a hand over his mouth, and it seems already that Enjolras regrets having asked, because Grantaire’s chin lifts to meet his eyes once more.

“I wonder, what would you call a man willing to slaughter in cold blood a crew that had surrendered itself?”

Enjolras glares at R, though he, in light of such a question, does not know what to say, that much is clear. Courfeyrac does not think anyone has argued this position to him before. Though it had distantly crossed their minds, of course, that they might fail, such was their determination to effect change that they had not considered how opposed to change the established system might be. Courfeyrac supposes he too had taken for granted how thoroughly the belief of the common folk that change is at all possible has been crushed. And had they not read it again and again, in books Enjolras smuggled into Paris? One peasant rising crushed after another, the leaders disposed off in a spectacle intended to serve as the direst of warnings.

Back when they had read it, both men had taken comfort in the fact that no matter how unbearable the losses, again and again such uprisings had continued to occur, from the Protestant States in Germany, to the peasants in England. Had they looked at it all wrong? Surely not.

“Monsieur Combeferre, see to his wounds.”

The Captain stands, leaving the room swiftly.

Unperturbed, Monsieur Combeferre bids R to lie down on the desk, clearing it of any spare papers.

“What have you been using to clean these wounds?”

“Warm wine,” Grantaire answers, teeth gritted, “But I was only yesterday afforded the opportunity to do so. I’m afraid they were infected long before that, I first smelled the pus while still shackled at sea, and I know that never bodes well.”

Monsieur Combeferre hums for a long while. “Courfeyrac, would you please fetch me some tar and oil? It is certain to be in my cabin. Oh, and my instruments, if you would. Perhaps some spirits too. This is bound to take a while.”

∞

He finds Enjolras at the helm of the Abaissés, staring determinedly at the stretch of endless ocean ahead of them. Courfeyrac hesitates for a moment, but then he decides he does not much care if the crew sees him place a comforting hand between Enjolras’ shoulder blades.

The Captain shudders an exhale then draws in a ragged breath. Thrice he repeats the action until his voice comes out somewhat steady.

“Can he be right?”

Courfeyrac does not ask what Enjolras means. There was only one accusation made that could cut so deep. He must not wait long to hear more: “Am I a cruel man, Courfeyrac? Have I, in the attempt to seek a better tomorrow debased myself so horribly? Have I sunk to a depth so far below the sea that, were I to try and claw my way back to the surface I would die before I ever reached it? Have I become what I am trying to eradicate?”

“If you are a cruel man, Enjolras, then no man can boast of being untouched by even a spot of cruelty, which is precisely the point R was attempting to argue, was it not? I will not attempt to justify all that we have done. Some of it has been wrong, we both know that. But if a bad thing is done it does not necessarily taint the perpetrator. What is it you always say about guilt? Remind me…”

“Then why do his words tear into me so, if not because I know them, deep within myself, to be reasonable?”

“Perhaps, my dear, you are struck by them because you have never met someone that firmly refused to have even the slightest bit of hope for the future we envision? I cannot imagine what a life he must have led, to be so disillusioned. Even Monsieur Combeferre does not see the world so engulfed in darkness.”

“But have I not also had doubts about myself, Courfeyrac? Have you not found me, again and again, shaken by what I thought necessity demanded of me? Should I not have attempted instead to be as merciful as I would wish this world to be? Are we not told never to cede the high ground? I have placed myself in this war and ignored any such principles that your father taught you.”

"My father liked to pretend he knew what he was doing, but his battles were won more by numbers and luck than cunning strategy, as most of these noble wars go. Do not liken yourself to him, I beg you."

"But have I not also sacrificed men willingly to achieve my own ends, uncaring of their right to live?"

“Violence begets violence, I agree with some philosophers on that, as you well know. Yet we were not the first to strike, not now, not ever. Enjolras, any regime of oppression known to us is held in place by continuous, unspeakable violence. How can we expect it to topple without being violently induced to? If we set our course to chase that ideal state of peaceful reform Monsieur Combeferre has confessed to dreaming of, we ought to wait until these Kings finally look into their own hearts to find them blackened and corrupt, and decide to give power to the hands of the people. I dare say we would find ourselves in our graves before such a thing came to be. It is difficult for a man on top of the world to reflect on his flaws. That you are so concerned with your possible shortcomings is a credit to you, as far as I am concerned. Rest a bit, my friend, and soon I am sure you will regain your conviction. And then, I believe, you may even convince Monsieur Grantaire to aid us after all. I have found your reasoning very hard to resist.”

Enjolras’ eyes are red when he tears them away from the horizon.

“Stay with me a while longer, I beg of you.”

“Have I ever left your side in time of need?” Courfeyrac smiles at him. The relief that comes as Enjolras returns the smile, however slight the tic in his face may be, is immeasurable.

∞

Nassau’s main street is busiest in the hour leading up to the sunset, when vendors close up shop, striking last-minute bargains with the desperate poor for wares they could not possibly attempt to sell again in the morning. When finely powdered and provocatively made-up ladies emerge from a myriad of buildings in search of occupation, it draws all those looking for company to the street as well.

That hour has passed now, and Courfeyrac spent it comparing lists with Gavroche, showing him how to calculate expenses for a crew of twenty and five men.

“Courfeyrac?”

“Yes Gavroche?” Courfeyrac answers without looking up from his calculations. It seems their repairs have cost them a fair bit, but since he knows Enjolras has made a rather large effort of saving what he can spare, he knows they will be able to suffer the slight dent, even in the unlikely event that the crew should not agree to pitch in a small sum each. Ordinarily, ship repairs are not hard to demonstrate as necessary. He would have a harder time convincing the crew to put money forward for Monsieur Combeferre’s remedies, which is why they established long ago that medical expenses would be run separately, taken out of their treasury before each man receives his share. It is quite efficient because Monsieur Combeferre is very reliable when it comes to predicting the sum of such things, and does not dawdle in informing him of what he has purchased. If only all men were as reliable – The Boatswain, it seems, has lost his expense tally, but promised good-naturedly that he would accept a cut in his own share to make up for it, if necessary.

“How long d’ya suppose it might take the posh gent over there to realize the two men following him mean ta do him harm?”

“Come again?”

Courfeyrac follows Gavroche’s line of sight where, true enough, two men he recognizes as frequent loiterers on this street, are subtly pursuing a gentleman that looks supremely out of place here. His skin has not yet colored under the sun, his clothes are well-made and crisp though they are black and must be horribly warm even now that the sun has gone down, and he carries himself with an air that is quite familiar to Courfeyrac.

“Gavroche, if you would do me the favor of taking the treasury back to the Captain, please. I think I shall go make sure the gentleman is not murdered. That would quite do the trick of convincing anyone still on the fence that piracy is a problem, would it not?”

“I might just make off with all of the gold myself,” Gavroche grins, tongue manipulating one loose tooth.

“You are welcome to try, of course, but no crew would willingly take on a selfish thief that does not share with his brothers.”

Gavroche puffs his chest out.

“Only joking, Monsieur! My honor is too great for such a foul trick. They’re about ta turn a corner, you better be quick about it.”

By the time Courfeyrac strolls into the alley the men disappeared into, one of them already has a knife threateningly poised in his hand. Not close enough to the gentleman to do damage, but Courfeyrac supposes the mere presence of a weapon can be intimidating enough.

“Now I do not imagine you are trying to sell a knife to the gentleman in black, are you, Claquesous?”

“Be on your way, little Lordling, this does not concern you.”

“You are mistaken. Making sure my fellow citizens uphold the Code of Honor is of great concern to me.”

Claquesous’ companion, a broad-shouldered oaf of a man called Babet, turns to Courfeyrac, presumably to ensure he does not have a chance to defend the would-be victim. Two blades are drawn, Courfeyrac’s just a bit quicker, as it rests just below a bobbing Adam’s apple, where cartilage is non-existent and only the slightest touch is necessary to slide the blade in deep enough to kill. You learn to locate such spots quickly in leading a life as Courfeyrac has. First, you learn to avoid them when fencing with a partner you do not wish to seriously injure. Then, you learn to deliberately seek them out, once you look for quick ways to defend yourself while fighting in close quarters.

“Careful now, Babet,” Courfeyrac cautions. Behind him, there is movement. Someone else has stumbled upon the alley. Initially, there is the sound of fabric shuffling, swiftly followed by the telltale trickle of someone relieving themselves. A pause, as all involved still.

“Courfeyrac? Is that you?”

“L’Aigle, what a most opportune time you have picked to urinate. Truly, I could not be more impressed.”

The man comes closer, squinting to make out the other figures in the darkness.

“Oh be off, Claquesous, let the poor man alone and rob Thénardier instead. He’s passed out at one of his tables with a pocket full of stolen gold he must have cheated you two out of.”

Now that the odds have shifted once more, the two men do let up, although not without the appropriate amount of muttered threats and angry posturing.

“I thank you,” the man says, clearing his throat and regaining some confidence, it seems.

“Word of advice, Monsieur,” L’Aigle yawns, a hiccup spilling out. Briefly, the scent of beer warms the air around them. “Don’t be going out alone in Nassau this time of night unless you’re capable of defending your life.”

“Yes, when they told me the island was overrun with pirates I admit, at first I refused to believe it that so many a scoundrel could be drawn to a single place, but it seems they do congregate around these parts.”

L’Aigle grins at Courfeyrac.

“There’s a saying, I believe, about not lumping people together by one thing you believe them to have in common. Those two men who attacked you have never been pirates, they’re beggars, ex-soldiers of his Majesté le Roi come here in hope of a better life only to be disappointed. ‘Twas two pirates that just saved your life, Monsieur.”

“…Pirates? I am sorry, messieurs, I did not mean to offend, not at all…” The man stammers, once more backing away from them.

“Come now, Monsieur, no need to fret. But you had best be getting home.”

“That is…well that is the issue of it all, you see. I do not currently have a home on this island. I had…well I suppose you might call it a falling out with my grandfather, political differences, you see, precisely on the nature of piracy on this Island and how best to deal with it, and so I thought I might procure lodgings in town, only it seems…well the establishment I was pointed to turned out to be…unsavory…a house of ill-repute, I might call it.”

“I take it then, that you are Monsieur Gillenormand’s grandson?” Courfeyrac finally gets a word in between The Eagle’s curiosity, his interest equally piqued by the stammering, blushing man.

“Why yes, I am. Marius Pontmercy is my name.”

“I am L’Aigle, Boatswain of the Abaissés. This is Monsieur Courfeyrac, our Quartermaster. I think I may know a place for you to sleep tonight, one that would undoubtedly be marginally more comfortable and afford me some company on the long trip there.”

He turns to Courfeyrac, to say: “The Captain has tasked me with delivering a letter to the Fauchelevent estate, since you were unavailable. Afterwards I intend to visit Musichetta and Mister Joly, but I think old Ultime may happily take in a lodger. His brother has been complaining about his back again, and they shall have need of some aid in the gardens, I believe.”

Then he turns to Monsieur Pontmercy: “That is, if you are not opposed to working for your keep.”

“No, I love work, to be sure!” Monsieur Pontmercy insists, having regained some healthier amount of color in his cheek.

“Excellent. Come along, Monsieur Pontmercy. I expect I shall regale you greatly with my fearsome pirate stories, and then you may in turn amuse me with your proposal of how to deal with removing me and mine from this island. Tell me, have you ever heard the sound a man makes when he slips in the middle of a fight onto his face and breaks his nose? It is really quite something comical, I can attest…”

There is something about Monsieur Pontmercy, Courfeyrac thinks, that makes him quite readily forgive that the man had essentially put him on the same level as the Patron-Minette.

∞

**April 21 st, 1718 – Further inland on the island of Nassau**

Monsieur Combeferre grips the reins of their cart tight, his thigh pressing against Courfeyrac as they traverse uneven roads. Behind them, Enjolras is leaning his head on Courfeyrac’s lower back, though Courfeyrac is under no illusion that he is anything but relaxed. No, tension is written into every part of his body.

The decision to leave Grantaire at the beach encampment must still nag at him. After being treated for his wounds, the man promptly went out on deck only to collapse. It seemed, that with the direst need for secrecy eliminated, his body had simply given out, no longer capable of holding itself togegther by mere threads. In the following hours his fever had climbed, delirium had set in, and reduced him to a dreadful state that raised some concern with the crew until Monsieur Combeferre had assured that the man was in all likelihood not infectious.

("It has been known to happen," Monsieur Combeferre had confessed quietly to Courfeyrac, "That the body manages to mobilize resources that seem impossible to attain, when it must defend itself. But even those are limited. I believe that is what happened to R. He has been desperately defending himself for too long and he can do nothing now.")

Now likely still passed out, he is spending the evening with Feuilly whittling by his bedside. Feuilly had merely nodded when Enjolras asked him not to let the man out of his sight, but Courfeyrac knows the man would prefer to watch over Grantaire himself. He is also no stranger to what it looks like when Enjolras wishes to have words with someone he cannot.

He cannot help but feel that Enjolras deeply regrets how he handled the confrontation, but he has refused to address the issue, so Courfeyrac will not either.

“I believe this to be the house,” Monsieur Combeferre interrupts Courfeyrac’s thoughts in a calm voice, though he does not look happy to have arrived. Enjolras rolls his shoulders a few times, stretching before he alights the cart. At the door, two women stand together, sharing hushed conversation. Courfeyrac is rather surprised to identify Miss Éponine as one of them.

“They needed a guide getting here, is all – and I know my way around, but I’ve no interest in making my way back on foot when they retreat onto the other side of the island, so I’ll hop on your cart with you later, alright?”

“Quite alright. It is a pleasure to see you, as always. And you must be Musichetta. The Eagle has told me much about you.”

“He has not practiced restraint in heaping praise upon your head either,” Musichetta inclines her head, “Nor on your Captain, which is why I allowed tonight to happen. I am not usually fond of so many visitors.”

“I expect we shall be out of your sight again shortly. Whatever words are to be exchanged, we have no cause to draw this meeting out past midnight.”

“Very well then,” Musichetta shrugs, as if it truly is all the same to her. “They’re waiting for you inside.”

Courfeyrac had expected as much, and he does not doubt it is deliberate. Though tonight’s meeting is not overtly antagonistic in its nature, the very fact that Enjolras must now approach the table at which the other party is already seated has a powerful unbalancing effect. This may merely be of a symbolic nature, but he is under no illusion that such symbols have some bearing on the course of a conversation.

The room they enter is well-illuminated by candlelight, and at the rather fancy oak table the previous owners must have paid a fortune to have commissioned sits Captain Teague. When Courfeyrac saw him last, it was a fleeting glance across the tavern where he had half a tankard of ale still foaming in the knots of his beard. Tonight he looks somewhat less jubilant. His deep set eyes are not quite cold, but they are rather serious. Enjolras’ own expression reflects the sentiment. Behind him, Mister Howard stands to his right, and the young Doctor Joly stands to his left. Consciously, Courfeyrac and Combeferre mirror those positions when Enjolras goes to have a seat.

“You’re looking well,” Mister Teague addresses Enjolras in French, which Courfeyrac supposes is meant to be a show of friendly intentions, only he makes quite a butchery of the pronunciation. Enjolras magnanimously switches to English.

“If I am to be frank with you, Monsieur Teague, I must admit that I have been better, in recent years.”

“Ain’t that the truth,” Teague grins, offering a drink. Enjolras studies it for a while before he accepts the cup.

“My Quartermaster informs me you have no intention of accepting Rogers’ pardon?”

“My Quartermaster tells me you feel much the same about it,” Enjolras shrugs. Teague grins, proposing a toast: “To shitting on the English Crown and her jewels, then!”

Enjolras does not echo the sentiment, but he does accept the toast, and both men drink deep.

“It is good for men to have drunk together at least once before they attempt to conspire together, I always say,” Teague continues, “And I believe we have never had the pleasure.”

“No, I do not think we have,” Enjolras confirms. He can do so readily because usually he refuses alcohol as a matter of principle. It dulls the mind, he insists.

“Well then, now that we have remedied that, shall I tell you what I had in mind upon inviting you here?”

“I admit I have been wondering.”

Mister Howard pulls from a satchel around his shoulder a rolled up, yellowed paper, which he spreads to reveal a map.

“South Carolina,” Enjolras recognizes, “What business do we have there?”

“None, yet, though I am hoping to change that, as you may have guessed.”

“It would be very strange indeed if you had merely wanted to show me that you own a map of such detail,” Enjolras tilts his head to the side. Teague grins at him.

“No one told me your tongue could be quite so sharp, Captain, else I would have proposed drinking together months ago.”

“Yes, well,” Enjolras makes a distracted hand movement, eyes studying the map in front of him and any markings Teague has made. Courfeyrac can make out a few words scribbled in dark ink, meticulous lines sketched to symbolize…something. A great number of blocks are supposed to indicate ships, he supposes.

“You mean to blockade Charlestown,” Enjolras voices his thoughts just as Courfeyrac comes to the same conclusion.

“That is the plan, yes,” Teague cards a hand through the beard that has given him his more famed moniker, the one that strikes fear into the faint-hearted.

“You would leave Nassau undefended to fall into the hands of the Rogers?”

“Now, who said anything about that? I have had word from Captain Vane that he has procured a second ship and intends to use this one and more to defend our home.”

“Do you suppose Rogers will arrive on a single ship rather than a fleet of his own? I believe the Phoenix and her captain made that mistake and were promptly run off the island for it. The Crown may be arrogant, but it is not altogether incapable of learning from past mistakes, I regret to inform you.”

“Captain Pearse’s ship is one of the ships Charles has made his own, for that matter. But no, I do believe he intends to arrive with company. Now, however, we have been informed that this company does not travel with him from London, but that rather he is set to receive aid from the Colonies.”

“Charlestown, I suppose?”

“From what we have been able to gather, yes,” Captain Teague leans back in his seat, “Not to mention that the profits of the many merchant ships docked there are large enough for an entire crew to retire on as wealthy men, should they wish, but I think such a prospect does not particularly tempt you, Captain Enjolras.”

“It is enough that it would tempt my crew,” Enjolras considers, eyes flitting over his shoulder to glance at Courfeyrac before he traces a finger over the ink. “You would have us blockade them to prolong Rogers’ arrival in Nassau?”

“Until Captain Vane has managed to convince more in Nassau to rally to our cause, yes. Ideally I would like to avoid his arrival altogether. Putting fear in the heart of Charlestown increases the necessary pressure a considerable amount, and I hear these continental governors are quite easily swayed in negotiations, if you take my meaning.”

“It is…a bold plan,” Enjolras finally concludes, brows furrowed.

“I favor a bold plan,” Captain Teague shrugs, refilling both their cups.

“We would have to put it to a vote with the men. There is a risk attached to such boldness,” Courfeyrac says.

“A man that would turn and run at the first sight of trouble will be no good in this endeavor. See that the men who vote against such a matter either change their minds or remain in Nassau,” Doctor Joly points out.

“Will you be coming along, Doctor?” Courfeyrac grins at the man, whose nasal voice still speaks of lingering illness.

“I intend to, though I should hate to do battle with a stuffed nose.” As if to demonstrate he blows into a hankerchief.

“Very well,” Enjolras speaks up once more, “We are agreed then. Tomorrow we will have a vote. Miss Éponine will be the envoy of our decision to your camp, if all are agreed.”

Captain Teague stands, his chair creaking across the floorboards as he does, to extend a hand. Enjolras takes it.

∞

**April 30 th 1718 - The Abaissés and Blackbeard’s fleet has set out from Nassau**

The vote had been unanimous, which is a rare thing to see indeed. Even when Enjolras was elected Captain, years ago, there was some demurring, the standard grumbling about his youth. Now, it seems to Courfeyrac that they have truly rallied to the same standard. Tonight it is windy, and all around his ears the water is alive with the sound of Captain Teague’s fleet, near them. Late this afternoon they had spotted his flags coming from the other side of the island, the Queen Anne’s Revenge appearing as a formidable figure flanked by his second and third in command.

Courfeyrac has marveled at the stupendous amount of guns the man has outfitted his vessel with. Captain Bonnet’s colors have not appeared yet, but Courfeyrac expects they shall before very long. They would not be seen in the dark anyway. Three hours ago the sun fell behind the horizon, leaving their journey pitched in darkness.

“You are staring at her again,” Monsieur Combeferre’s voice startles him. “Are you truly so captivated by that ship?”

“I think she must be the best-outfitted ship in these waters; that is all, with the changes Captain Teague has undertaken. I had expected to count you below deck with the men, at this hour,” Courfeyrac glances over his shoulder, though he can hardly make out Monsieur Combeferre’s face in the darkness. The moon does not do a great deal of work to aid him, tonight. Another wave crashes against the ship, either stirred by the wind whipping around them or produced by a ship close by. Water sprays Courfeyrac’s face, softly. The salt burns only a little.

“Monsieur R’s fever has gone down at last, he was quite lucid when I saw him just now, though I think he would recover more swiftly on land. The rest of the men are taken care of…I have no additional duty below deck tonight.”

It is no clear answer as to why the man has come to join him, but then, Courfeyrac did not ask clearly. Monsieur Combeferre only responds to implications if he is disposed to do so. Tonight, it seems he is not. Courfeyrac has no problem making his next foray into getting answers a more direct one.

 

“And so you climb up here to weather the cruel winds with me?”

 

“I had expected to be required to climb up the mast in order to find you, not to find you readily available for approach on the deck.”

 

Reminded, Courfeyrac glances up towards the nest, squinting and shielding his face from the worst of the onslaught of droplets with a hand to his brow.

 

“If the Captain expects me to climb up there tonight he shall have to find a new quartermaster at rather short notice, because I shall have gone beneath the waves to die.”

 

He glances at Monsieur Combeferre, whose calm face is tilted slightly to the side, a show of curiosity. Now that he is next to Courfeyrac, his features are distinguishable at last.

 

“I am a fair bit better at fighting than I am at climbing,” Courfeyrac explains, “No use sending me up there, and while it is dark out I will not be useful up there anyway. I do not quite understand his reasoning in ordering me up here tonight.”

 

“And so you stayed on the deck,” Monsieur Combeferre gathers, resting his elbows on the wet wood and staring out across the dark, windy vastness that encompasses their ship. “It is a very mild form of rebellion, if I dare say so.”

 

“Quite so. Why have you decided to brave the weather?”

 

“I found myself wishing for company, perhaps conversation,” Monsieur Combeferre admits reluctantly, and Courfeyrac does him the favor of not inquiring even deeper into something Monsieur Combeferre clearly does not wish to discuss. Thrice now Courfeyrac has given him a way of explaining why he has sought out Courfeyrac, of all people, and thrice is quite enough.

 

“Very well then, what is on your mind tonight?”

 

“Can I not simply wish to know how you are doing?”

 

“If that were all this conversation was meant to be, Monsieur Combeferre, you would have assured yourself of my well-being and then swiftly retreated below deck to peruse your books or ponder the right ratio of oil and tar to ensure optimal treatment of a wound. That you would approach me as you have speaks of an altogether different intention. So pray tell, what is on your mind tonight?”

 

That Monsieur Combeferre does not deny it does, as far as Courfeyrac is concerned, a great credit to the rapport they have built over the years they have sailed together, have lived together. He mentions as much and watches with some fascination as Monsieur Combeferre ducks his head, lips tugged into a rather bashful smile at being caught.

 

“You are right that I usually prefer my solitude. Tonight I wished to talk to you. I hope you will do me the courtesy of not claiming I only engage in your company when the whim so takes me and no one more suitable is to be found?”

 

“Of course not,” Courfeyrac agrees, smiling as they look over the water together. Somewhere on the water, men just like them are floating along, having conversations hidden in the wind and feeling as though nothing could possibly exist in the darkness around them. 

 

“Has anyone ever told you the story of how the _Queen Anne’s Revenge_ came to be Captain Teague’s flagship?”

 

“I have heard some stories, they tend to conflict. Most of a pirate's legacy is heavily embellished. They say of you in some of Nassau's taverns that you sprang fully formed from the mouth of a sea witch, gifted with the knowledge to rid humanity of all it's plagues.”

"They do not say that of me."

"I have heard it said," Courfeyrac insists with a smile. "Though it may have been from the mouth of our Master Gunner when you healed that substantial sunburn he acquired last July. Now what is this story you wished to tell me?"

 “I sat down with Caesar once, who was on the ship when Teague took it,” Monsieur Combeferre’s eyes gain a faraway look. “She was a slave ship, before, of Spanish making but French in name. ‘La Concorde’, she was called. By the time Teague took her, sixty-one of those chained in the hold had already perished. The ship was taken, and Teague took the men, in chains, onto the beach, where he allowed the surviving slavers to take them, even outfitting them with a small boat so that they may reach Martinique after all. You see it was only the ship he was interested in, not the cargo at all.”

 

Goosebumps travel up Courfeyrac’s spine. “I do not believe I must explain to you why I have been reluctant to work with Captain Teague? I see the necessity of his plan, but if it were at all possible to do it without him, or to keep Nassau free some other way, I would prefer it.”

 

“Monsieur Combeferre, I do not quite know what to say,” Courfeyrac admits. Their eyes meet in the dark. He thinks there is some hesitation left in the man’s eyes.

 

“Do you recall the first words I said to you, when you dove into the water for me?”

 

“Is that why you have been so lost in thought these past few days? If the memory of Charlestown is so horrid to you, I wish you would have said something to me…we could have…”

 

“It has been some years now,” Monsieur Combeferre admits, “I can think on it with some calmness that was not afforded to me then. Do you remember what I said?”

 

“I do,” Courfeyrac nods, “You told me that if I intended to enslave you once more I had better let you go, or else you would ensure it could not come to be. ‘Let this be the end of us both then,’, you said to me.”

 

“I had heard only stories like the fates of the poor souls on La Concorde,” Monsieur Combeferre admits. “That day in Charlestown, I was pushed into the waves by a man whom, for years, I had served with unfailing loyalty. I had considered him a good man, and I had labored under the impression that he bore some respect for me as well. After all, he clothed me, did he not? He made sure I always had something to eat, he taught me to read and allowed me to pursue the study of medicine, praised me for my industry...he was much kinder than the masters I had served before. But that was the foolish hope all lonely creatures entertain. You bind yourself to those who have ownership of you at the first sign of goodness they might show until they have you eating from their hands, never considering that they might see you as less than human, as, perhaps, an amusing or useful pet. Quite expendable, at the end of the day.”

 

This is one of the few topics that Courfeyrac had never dared to breach. They have not once spoken of Charlestown, years in the past that it is. They have not spoken of Monsieur Combeferre's history, besides the sparse times that he referred to his bondage in arguments, when the abstract was not enough to drive his point home. But it was always a recounting of facts, not a revelation of inner turmoil as this is.

 

“And yet, despite my being favored,” Monsieur Combeferre continues, in a voice that sounds as though it pulls thoughts from some faraway, hidden place, “He pushed me overboard the second he thought there was a chance it might aid his own survival, knowing full well I had never been allowed to learn how to swim. To teach me medicine was one thing, that served him too. But to know to swim would be something exclusively for my own benefit, perhaps he thought it would encourage thoughts of escape, though I had never once entertained them. If his life had not ended that day, I do not think that, upon consideration, he would have regretted sacrificing me. Perhaps he would have regretted the cost of having to purchase my replacement. Perhaps, some years later, he would have bemoaned the replacement as less useful. But I believe that would have been all the thought he would pay my memory.” 

He does not seem to expect an answer from Courfeyrac. All in all Courfeyrac is not sure which words could possibly bring comfort.

 

“And then, drowning as I was I only saw, whenever I managed to catch air above the waves, a young man liberating himself of his coat and boots, wrapping a rope around his midriff provisionally and diving into the water. When you yelled at me, to be heard over the waves, that I would be as free as any man or you would consider your own life forfeit, I did not believe you.”

 

Monsieur Combeferre looks at him now, seemingly back in the present, once more grounded. “I wanted to believe you. You had a certain kindness in your eyes, and you seemed sincere. But everything in me rebelled against the idea of trusting… a man such as you, to borrow your words, ever again.”

 

“You have never told me any of this,” Courfeyrac admits, feeling rather as though Monsieur Combeferre had taken a hot poker to shove it through his heart.

 

“I did not know how to admit these things to you, Courfeyrac. For a long time I thought I would never speak of these things again, that I could simply forget what I felt, what I have had to endure. I do not believe I need to assure you that things are different after being by your side for so long.”

 

“So why have you broken your silence now?”

 

“Well, we might die soon, for one.”

 

They share a smile, barely there. Monsieur Combeferre once more turns his face to the water. By now the waves have calmed somewhat, though the wind still howls.

 

“Our Monsieur Grantaire, do you trust him?”

 

It would seem that concludes the previous conversation. Courfeyrac had still been thinking of something to say on that matter.

 

“Ah,” Courfeyrac huffs out a breath as he considers, “I trust that he does not yet wish to die, at most. R is not too bothered by oaths or honors, but I think he is far from resigned to death. That’s an easy thing to trust in, and in turn it is easier to predict what he might do. Though if he continues to avoid the Captain once he regains his strength I do not see how we shall ever get what we need out of him.”

 

“I fear he seeks to sway the Captain. They do not share words, but I have seen them go about their business, him half-dazed on his cot, Enjolras organizing the men, each day, breaking eye contact only when strictly necessary. They orbit one another, and I cannot say I believe I will like the product of their collision, when it should come.”

 

“I should like to see a man with no convictions sway anyone,” Courfeyrac snorts out a laugh, “Tell me, Monsieur Combeferre, what should R hope to turn the Captain’s heart to? You do not honestly believe that Enjolras will give up the notion that freedom is a universal right?”

 

“Monsieur Grantaire may hold no personal convictions, but that does not mean he poses no threat. I am merely observing that I do not think Enjolras is as impartial to him as he ought to be. I have found him sitting by the man's side as he sleeps. And, as humans, those we hold dear have considerable power over our decisions, whether we consciously register their influence or not.”

 

“Putting that to the Captain will do more harm than good, but you are welcome to share your concerns with him.”

 

“We are agreed in that, as far as I am concerned.”

 

Silence falls between them once more, this time in a comfortable manner.

 

“Pardon me, Monsieur Combeferre, but there seems to be more that vexes you.”

 

“It is… as you have said. We have sailed together for nigh four years now. Charlestown and my initial reluctance to your person have long passed.”

 

“That development displeases you?”

 

“I thought only to inquire why you still call me nothing but Monsieur Combeferre.”

 

Truthfully, Courfeyrac had never given much thought to that. He calls men and women what they wish to be called.

 

“It is how you introduced yourself to me, that day.”

 

“It is how I introduced myself to all of the crew, and they have been quite creative in the pursuit of naming me something more personal.”

 

“You have never indicated a desire to be called anything else.”

 

“You alone know my name in this world now, I believe. I had thought, after four years, I must have heard you use it at least once, but looking back on it now I cannot say that I have.”

 

“I came upon your name by accident, you did not give it to me to be freely used, nor would I presume such liberties unless explicitly invited to.”

 

Once that ship had been taken, once Courfeyrac had gone through the Captain’s log, he had come upon a certificate of sale, swiftly torn to pieces, to go up in flames first, the rest of the ship quick to follow.

 

“Other men would not hesitate to do so, if not to force intimacy then because they assume it holds some sway over me. You have not even shared it with Enjolras, I would wager.”

 

“Many have called you by the names they forced upon you and tried to beat the one your mother gave you into nothingness. I would make sure I never call you what you would not wish to be called.”

 

“I have not heard my name used since I was a boy that stood half as tall as I do now.”

 

“I am afraid without initial instruction I would butcher the pronunciation horribly.”

 

“You mistake intent. I am quite happy to remain Monsieur Combeferre. It is the name I chose to keep that day, the first choice I freely made in a long time. I only wished to hear your reasoning.”

 

“And are my reasons deemed acceptable?”

 

“They speak of respect for my personhood which I thoroughly appreciate.”

 

“I believe I have mentioned often enough that I have the highest regard for you, Monsieur Combeferre, surely I need not convince you of how near I hold you to my...Ah, that must be L’Aigle — have you come to relieve me?”

 

The Eagle nods in confirmation.

 

“Well then, a hammock awaits me — Goodnight, gentlemen.”

 

Combeferre’s fingers and his have shifted to touch on the cold railing during the course of their conversation; but he only notices this progression once he has already removed his hand. By removal, the warmth his proximity induced is more keenly missed. He holds Monsieur Combeferre’s calm eyes a while longer, before he finally manages to tear himself away.

 

Oh, how he hopes Nassau will not be changed too much by the time they return.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -In treating Grantaire's wounds with Coal Tar (Phenol) and Oils, Combeferre is reaching about a century into the future to use the method popularized by the English Doctor Joseph Lister after he was one of the first People to buy into Pasteur's revolutionary germ theory (a.k.a. the Things that cause infections are ALIVE and must be killed for it to go away). I feel okay having him do that because some of Lister's detractors claimed the use of it in medicine wasn't his original idea (which he never claimed, he came by the idea because Phenol was already a well-known remedy against reducing the smell of sewage) and that it had been used already by others. Lister is the guy that Listerine is named for, fun fact, and he also saved Queen Victoria's life by operating on her armpit. I recently read "The Butchering Art" by Lindsey Fitzharris, which is kind of a biography of his life's Mission to reduce the risk of infection in English Hospitals during the 19th century, and I would highly recommend it. I read the whole thing in an evening.  
> -The story Combeferre tells Courfeyrac about the origins of Blackbeard's flagship is unfortunately true. Sorry, pirates were no less racist than any other contemporary Folks. The crew of the Abaissés get a pass because they're fictional and I can pretend they're #woke  
> -Given that Blackbeard's fleet consisted of many, many ships over the few years he was active, he also had a few more figures on his crew than the one Quartermaster I have listed. That includes a Captain and Quartermaster and Boatswain and Master Gunner and Sailing Master etc for every ship, at least. One of them was Israel Hands, a man whose name Robert Louis Stevenson borrowed for his book Treasure Island. The man was convicted of piracy but pardoned and was reportedly beggared the rest of his life.  
> -Another member of the crew, the one I mentioned in this chapter, was a black man by the name of Caesar. Blackbeard apparently liked him and trusted him with quite an important task regarding his ship "The Adventure" (Captained for a time by Israel Hands.)  
> -Then there was the "Revenge", the only other ship of his I will explicitly name. There were more, but I don't want to overcomplicate Things. She switched ownership from time to time, occasionally being captained by Captain Bonnet, whom we shall meet in coming chapters. In this fic however, she'll be exclusively captained by Bonnet, and not also by Blackbeard's 'Second in Command' Lieutenant Richards, because while real-life pirate adventures are fun to Research, this is supposed to be a story about Les Mis characters. You gotta sacrifice some of the convoluted historical plot eventually...


	5. On Blockading a Harbor and Suffering Long Negotiations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At this point it is proper of me to thank @Enjoloras for being awesome about making sure I handle trans Enjolras respectfully, so thank u. :)

**May 1 st, 1718 – Off the Coast of Man-O-War Cay, Caribbean**

 

They have long passed the distant shores of the last island their map’s cartographer considered worthy of documenting when at last they spot Captain Bonnet’s flag on the mast of the _Revenge_. The men are hungry, some are worn out by the storm, and it is understood that to properly confer on how to proceed, land must be made.

 

Captain Hands sends signal of an island some hours due west from where the conditions of the beach and cliffs are favorable enough to avoid running any of their ships aground. They set sail and leave only a skeleton crew behind on the deck.

 

Courfeyrac observes Grantaire stumble up from where he is supposed to be resting below deck, to retch over the railing. Some of what he produces droops onto the side of the ship, but he supposes a bucket of saltwater will prove effective in eliminating the evidence left behind by such sickness.

 

“I refuse to have you pity me, Mister Quartermaster.”

 

The man has an uncanny ability to guess who is hovering behind him. Courfeyrac almost envies him for it. “I pity only the wood for your poor treatment of it,” Courfeyrac lies.

 

Grantaire raises his head to throw him a grin that just looks miserable, though his eyes are no longer quite as feverish as they were just yesterday. They have regained some of their sharpness, clarity has returned, but he does not look happier for it. Courfeyrac takes that to mean he is, at last, on the mend, but that not all is right.

“No one has deigned to tell me where we are headed, and I would be much obliged to receive at least a small update.”

 

“Charlestown,” Enjolras announces, having appeared a second before at Courfeyrac’s side with a telescope in hand. He turns to Courfeyrac: “Our sailing master seems to think these rocks in our path would be enough to tear us asunder, and he proposes circling around that strip of beach due north, but he would have your opinion first.”

 

“Have Bahorel do as he would, I trust his expertise more than I am comfortable blindly following Bonnet’s leadership.”

 

“Pardon me,” Grantaire frowns, “But why is it that we have decided to sail to Charlestown?”

 

“Captain Teague intends to form a blockade there, and we mean to aid him. I also wish to make contact with one of our old friends. Euphrasie informed me that he intended to ride to South Carolina from Virginia to meet us, if it can be arranged.”

 

“Oh I should be very glad to see _that one_ again,” Courfeyrac hears the near purr of his voice with some chagrin, passing the telescope back. “But now I believe some discipline is in order. Monsieur Combeferre would have me Kissing the Gunner’s Daughter if he knew I allowed his patient out of bed against express orders. His authority in the art of healing is unquestionable and I bow to it. Below deck with you, R – and quickly, too!”

 

“He may rest in my cabin,” Enjolras intercedes, “There are still things I would discuss with you, Monsieur, now that you have your wits about you again.”

 

“Ah, _mon capitaine_ , do not tell me you missed my wits in the long days of their absence?” Grantaire’s voice is weak, as is the jest, and it only serves to produce a confused frown on Enjolras’ face.

 

“I would not press you to reveal what you would rather keep to yourself, but I am interested in hearing your opinion on what I have managed to produce with what little I could surmise from the documents available, even if you would only once more tell me how my ambitions are misplaced.”

 

Grantaire holds tight onto the railing, staring at Enjolras. Courfeyrac thinks on some of Monsieur Combeferre’s observations, and notes Enjolras staring back, eyes issuing a silent challenge.

 

“You intend to go through with it still?”

 

“Monsieur, if you had imagined that your opposition to my plans would cause me to give up the fight, I must disappoint you. I must do so gladly, in fact. You argue well, I concede, yet you are not the first man to try and thwart me, not even the first to dismiss my hopes and dreams as foolish. In the end I have my convictions, and I will fight for what I believe in. I would ask you to do the same, only we have already established that you believe in nothing.”

 

“Not quite nothing, no,” Grantaire admits, seeming troubled, “There is a small list of things worth fighting for, though I find that these things are less the universal concepts you so admire and strive for but of a more…personal nature.”

 

“Greed, you mean? The desire to enrich oneself? I find that to be a very base motivation.”

 

“That, yes, certainly,” Grantaire nods his agreement hastily. “And to protect what one cherishes, most of all. Is that not why most men take up arms?”

 

“Is that why you will take them up?”

 

“Perhaps,” Grantaire’s voice is soft as he makes this confession. Quickly, he casts his eyes to the floor, unwilling to wait for Enjolras to answer. From the look of the man, Courfeyrac thinks Grantaire would be waiting a long time.

 

“ _Sails up_!” Bahorel calls from his position at the steering wheel, and a whole host of men spring into action. Grantaire limps to Enjolras’ cabin.

 

“What on earth would possess a man to develop opinions such as his?” Enjolras wonders aloud. Courfeyrac realizes a second later that the man does not expect an answer, because he has already gone to shout something back at Bahorel.

∞

 

Water drips into Courfeyrac’s boots when he exits the rowboat too quickly as he moves to guide it to the beach. Monsieur Combeferre has elected to remain on board with the rest of their skeleton crew, to administer aid to R, if he has need of it, and Ménard suffers more for it, he supposes, pushing the back of the rowboat when he stands no taller than Courfeyrac himself.

 

“Remind me again why I let you in the front?”

 

“I have been told I am quite favorable to look upon from behind,” Courfeyrac grins at Ménard. “Perhaps you agree?”

 

“You’re a right piece of shit, Courfeyrac, I hope you know that. My pants are drenched entirely, and if you-”

 

“Mister _Courfhayrack,_ ” an airy voice calls out to him. With some mastery over himself Courfeyrac manages to ignore the butchery made of his name. Ménard grumbles quietly enough not to draw undue attention, but Courfeyrac hears it and quite agrees.

 

“Captain Bonnet,” he takes the offered hand, “I am glad to see you reached us in good health. For a while there we believed we might never see the Revenge approach.”

 

“Yes, good health and complacency have in recent months given me quite the pouch,” Bonnet grips his stomach as if to demonstrate, and in truth it does seem the decision to leave the waistcoat unbuttoned was one made out of pure necessity rather than comfort, laughing jovially before inquiring: “And where is your captain hiding?”

 

“He has some final duties to see to on board, but will be joining us shortly, I expect. In the meantime I think it best if we begin with preparations. There are tents to set up, to be sure, and scouts to be sent into the thicket behind you. I believe Captain Teague expects us to stay here a while – the winds have turned on us, it would seem. Our sailing master estimates we shall have to plan for three days delay at the very least.”

 

“That is unfortunate,” Bonnet’s mustache curls over his lip onto his teeth when he pulls this grimace. Courfeyrac wonders if it tickles his gums. He has abandoned attempting to grow a full beard for some years now, but he does remember how it itched if he did not shave and trim it regularly.

 

“But I could imagine passing it in worse company. I have some fine Madeira left that we pilfered a month ago – would you take a cup with me?”

 

His hand is ever persistent, low on Courfeyrac’s back, but the prospect of tasting some of this fabled Madeira is enticing, so he does not mind so much. It is a quick thing to set up his tent. In any case they must wait for Teague’s ships to finish navigating a landing in conditions suddenly unfavorable to it, so they have some time yet. The Adventure has managed, it seems. Courfeyrac can spot rowboats being let into the water, can distantly hear Captain Hands shout himself hoarse, but the Queen Anne’s Revenge is not in sight yet.

 

“I have had news from Captain Vane,” Bonnet begins as he pours the both of them drinks, “He has brought a French ship under his control. That brings his fleet up to four, I think, the _Ranger_ being the flagship, as expected.”

 

“Whatever happened to the _Lark_?” Courfeyrac wonders, tasting the offered beverage and finding it only barely above mediocre. Well, he is not one to complain, it still settles well in his stomach, inducing pleasant warmth.

 

“The _Lark_ is the _Ranger_ – the crew renamed it, I believe out of some misguided hope it would serve to establish them as protectors of our Republic.”

 

“Perhaps it will help,” Courfeyrac shrugs. “Sometimes a good, fitting name does a great deal of work in achieving the goals one sets oneself. Take your title, for example.”

 

“ _The Gentlemen Pirate_ , yes,” Bonnet grins, “Supposed to be more of a dig at my lack of sailing knowledge, that, to be entirely honest. Thénardier came up with that one, though I am quite certain he cannot even tell a mast from a wheel.”

 

“But you have made it your own,” Courfeyrac encourages, receives a toast for his attempt.

 

“I must confess something to you, Mister _Courfhayrack_ ,” Bonnet sighs, heartfelt.

 

“I am all ears.”

 

“News of Vane is not all we have had these last few weeks. There has also been news from Europe herself.”

 

Courfeyrac motions for the man to continue.

 

“There are rumors that the Holy Roman Emperor himself has made overtures to the Triple Alliance. A Quadruple Alliance is imminent, one might say.”

 

“Such alliances are easily broken. Today they might fight side by side, and tomorrow the Empress might feel slighted by the second Earl of so-and-so, and it will be an affront that disrupts the new union irreparably, until overtures are made again. I have learned not to place too much stake into the importance of alliances of that nature.”

 

“Are not by definition all alliances temporary in their nature?”

 

“If formed in trust, I would say they must not be.”

 

“So you propose all men of aligned interest ought to wake up in the morning and simply decide to trust one another? How interestingly your mind works sometimes.”

 

A laugh is shared.

“You are right. It is not the alliance in itself that begs consideration, but the opportunity it presents. England has taken once more to handing out privateering licenses,” Bonnet concedes, in turn revealing deeper desires. It feels underhanded, this conversation, suddenly. No, that cannot be borne.

 

“Do you mean to tell me you would readily share your haul with a King that has had no part in the taking of it? I dare say that goes against everything we have established here.”

 

“It offers safety, of a kind, and a chance of unparalleled riches.”

 

“Well, yes. If a ship of the Royal Navy were to capture you. I contend the Spaniards would still readily see you hang.”

 

There is no universal pardon to be gained, not so long as different rulers pursue different interests. What good is an English pardon on the sea, a dominion shared by many with no one authority that governs it?

 

“If France were to make you such an offer, you would simply refuse?” Bonnet wonders, looking skeptical. How could Courfeyrac go about explaining that this has never been about looting for him? That no amount of treasure could induce him to return to France’s service?

 

“I have spent most of my youth serving Monsieur le Roi. It is not an experience worth repeating. This life I lead now… it may be less certain, less secure, but it is better in many ways.”

 

Bonnet refills their cups, hastily gulping his ration down. This is not how he intended this conversation to go, he thinks. Bonnet must have thought Courfeyrac willing to throw his lot in with him. He cannot imagine what he ever did to make the man think that.

 

“The King can go to hell, for all I care. But a secure life is not something to be thrown away lightly, Monsieur Courfeyrac.”

“You were a landowner, were you not, before you joined this life? What would persuade a man to give that up? If you so long for security - did you not have a great deal of it already?”

“Failed harvests, the death of my poor wife, and a taste for adventure…we are young men. Sooner or later we all wish to prove what we are capable of, do we not? What inspires a son of old nobility to hoist the black?” Bonnet asks the question lightly, perhaps a little too much so. Courfeyrac gets the sense that the man very much wishes to steer the conversation in a direction of his choosing - only he has not figured out yet where he will lead them to.

“It was an escape for me. I did not wish to continue the life I led, where I was groomed to take a place made for me at the head of an army division and send men to their deaths so that richer men than I might claim victory for it. I make no secret of that, my story is well-known.”

If his parents were still alive, he supposes they would be deeply ashamed of him. The last he has heard, some three years ago now, his sister married. The Courfeyrac estate absorbed into some larger, nobler family, he is now the last to bear the name, and with his death it will at once fade into oblivion. He would write her, but he does not think she remembers him. Or, if she does remember him, she must certainly have heard the stories of his crimes, sensationalized for the sake of swaying popular sentiment. Perhaps she has even suffered for them. He does not know. The girl was only a child of twelve when he and Enjolras fled in the night. Perhaps she has already died in the attempt of delivering an heir to her husband. That is a very common fate for young women, no matter their rank.

Sometimes he wonders about her, though he knows it does not do to dwell on the past so. Does she read, he wonders? Does she have an interest in politics or does she prefer to be a housewife, or maybe even both? Does she love her husband or does she resent him? Is she brazen enough to take a lover, if she has found someone she cares for? Or would she obey her husband and offer only him her fidelity, as she has been taught to?

He knows nothing now of a girl that held half his heart when he was younger, only remembers small bits and pieces about her. He knows they had the same curls, he knows she used to giggle madly when he would pick her up and twirl her around. She was but a small slip of a girl then, and now, if she lives, she must be a woman fully grown. At the dinner table she would kick his shin and flick food at him with her cutlery when their parents did not watch them too closely, to the despair of the servants. Back then she was wild, but perhaps they trained that out of her swiftly.

The thought of losing his sister, he thinks, is the only regret he has about this life. But those moments of melancholy are too rare to have much weight in his decisions.

“Yours is well-known, that much is true. Your captain’s origins, however, are shrouded in mystery. The name Enjolras has long been connected to tremendous wealth in the Midi, I have been told, a very prosperous family in both titles and connections. Only I do not seem to recall there having been born a son to the Terror of the Spaniards that is head of that house currently.”

“The Terror of the Spaniards is an interesting name, is it not? Do you know how the incumbent titleholder came by that name?”

“I have, quite frankly, little knowledge of such petty feuds in Europe. Every week it seems a new legend is born on those war fields, distinguished by some act of bravery or daring, only to slip into obscurity as the next man outshines him.”

“It seemed you had made inquiries, is all. They tell a great many stories of the Comte Enjolras, even abroad.”

“I have not been able to find out much, to my tremendous regret.”

“Then allow me to tell you how the most common story goes. Men that tell his story will start by telling you of his beautiful darling child, lovely as dawn itself, the pride and joy of the father. Comte Enjolras’ wife was always a frail woman, so she had already suffered three miscarriages before she was finally delivered of a healthy baby. Now when the time came to marry the child off at the customary age of fourteen, the lovely flower proved to be rather stubborn, prickly, with thorns that made every suitor bleed, sometimes, the story goes, not just metaphorically.”

 

Courfeyrac pauses to take a drink, watches Bonnet do the same.

 

“No proposed match seemed acceptable to the darling. You see at first, the father was quite set on allowing the child some leeway out of deep parental affection, only the child was not at all appreciative of the offer. Ungrateful, some would call that. In the end the Comte was obliged to force a marriage, as is customary when one or both parties prove themselves disinclined to honor the wishes of the King. So the marriage took place shortly after the child’s fifteenth birthday.”

“And which husband was chosen?”

“I do not recall, some noble son, in all likelihood,” Courfeyrac muses, circling the rim of his cup with his finger. “In any case, as it usually happens, eventually this pair that was thrown together by order of Monsieur le Roi developed a tentative friendship. It is either that or they vow never to see one another again, each take a lover and silently agree that any child that might come of such liaisons will be accepted as the heir, for the sake of peace. Marriage in such circles is a matter of negotiation, always. But do you not consider friendship to be an illustrious start for a marriage? These troubadours would certainly have you believe it. The story goes that they fell madly in love, and some three months after having been brought to the altar at sword point the pair was inseparable.”

“I cannot believe that the story ends in such a manner.”

“Of course not. No Spaniards have been terrorized yet, after all, and that is the whole point of it,” Courfeyrac grins, “It would make no sense to end it on such a happy note. Life does not work that way.”

“Inseparable as they were, the young husband took his spouse with him to Spain so that they would not be apart even as the war raged on around them. Monsieur Le Roi’s army was lodging in a rather small town by the Sea, I wish I could say I recall the name…very few inhabitants, they say, almost deserted. In any case, the happy pair intended to pass a week there with Comte Enjolras, but he awoke one morning to find their bed empty save for a pool of blood disfiguring the sheets, spatters of it across the room speaking of unimaginable horrors. The storytellers are never in agreement about the perpetrators of this crime. In war time most hold the Spaniards responsible, and when peace is made once more between the two nations they find someone else to blame. Naturally, as any good father would, this one went mad with grief, and so put every Spaniard in that town to the sword. But he was not the only one to mourn, and the story finishes with a lovestruck retainer of the Comte taking on his name, hoisting the black to avenge such a horrible deed by terrorizing Spanish ships.”

“That is…quite the story, Monsieur Courfeyrac. Is it true?”

 

“Perhaps you should ask Captain Enjolras himself when he makes land. I do believe I see him in that rowboat over there.”

 

“No, I don’t think I shall. Men so rarely enjoy being reminded of what they have lost."

 

 

∞

**May 14 th, 1718 – The Charlestown bay area, South Carolina Colony**

Having been waylaid by unfavorable winds has only served to increase the men’s bloodthirst, Courfeyrac observes as they draw closer to Charlestown. They are quite a few leagues from port yet, but he knows they must stop soon if they mean to achieve a functional blockade. If they were to simply storm the bay that would leave them in the disadvantageous position of possibly falling victim to a blockade themselves. No, Teague is right to have them hold position at this point.

 

Close enough to instill fear and exert pressure, but ready to withdraw when the moment calls for it. So often the tide of luck changes, less predictably than the tide that guides them.

 

Only, it seems, Teague had not considered that Charlestown may already have two outfitted warships in her port, ready to engage. He supposes that is due to their being waylaid, and can hardly fault Captain Teague for the weather, though he is sorely tempted to attempt that justification in his mind.

 

“There is something odd about two warships approaching a fleet of five that makes you wonder if the Royal Navy is just extremely brave or utterly careless in the matter of wasting lives, is there not?” The Eagle asks, next to him, a rope wrapped securely around his arm so that he can lean further out on the nets to observe the proceedings.

 

“I vote for the latter,” Courfeyrac snorts, “They share that trait with the French.”

 

“No, really, Courfeyrac, they seem awfully confident in their approach. Have they spotted us yet? Can they possibly have guessed what we mean to do…? To be sure they have noticed Teague…”

 

“I know you have reason to question your own luck too much to believe we might have so easy a time of it,” Courfeyrac shouts to be heard, “But my own has been sufficiently great these past years that I can comfortably go along with the plan and throw my worries overboard. Are the cannons secured yet?”

 

“We’re ready to turn her as the signal comes, yeah,” The Eagle confirms, but his hand continues to worry the telescope until Courfeyrac takes it to have a look for himself.

 

The _Queen Anne’s Revenge_ is lying in wait as the British ship comes closer, and Courfeyrac begins to feel tension settle into his shoulders then. She is well-stocked, to be sure, cannons almost double the number the _Abbaissés_ can boast, but if they manage to ride the waves just right, they will face little to no damage as the plan unfurls.

 

Blackbeard’s ship fires, earlier than planned, much too early, and the British ship answers with a volley that leaves Courfeyrac covering his ears. There was no hesitation. No, the Royal Navy is prepared to defend Charlestown, it seems.

 

“Now, now!” He shouts, waving frantically at Bahorel, “Bring us about, they’ve engaged!”

 

“I can fucking hear that,” Bahorel’s voice booms across the deck as he throws his weight behind the wheel. Enjolras stands a bit further down the deck, observing the developments with an angry glare.

 

“We’ll board her,” he decides, going against the discussed plan. “If she is allowed to continue her assault on the Queen Anne’s Revenge for much longer she could sink her and that would cost us our best ship. Bring us about!”

 

“I’m fucking trying, Captain,” Bahorel reiterates angrily, but at last manages to push against the weight of the water holding them back. Their maneuver passes slowly, when considered in the grand scale of the fight, but as the Abaissés turns in the water to trap the British vessel between two enemy ships, Courfeyrac feels as though everything is happening too fast to measure.

 

Shouts of frantic sailors – Courfyerac cannot tell for certain which side they fight on – increase, screams begin to be heard over the gunfire.

 

“Fire!” Feuilly orders from behind Courfeyrac. L’Aigle leaves his perch to grab a hook and join Enjolras in drawing the Abaissés closer to her target. Courfeyrac runs his thumb over the handle of his cutlass.

 

“Switch to grapeshot, aim for the decks,” Feuilly changes orders, looking up at Enjolras. “Captain, do we mean to sink her after this or keep her?”

 

“She’ll sink today. We have no crew to spare to man a second ship!” Enjolras calls back, and throws his hook. The next volley is echoed from the _Queen Anne’s Revenge_ , then the British vessel fires on the _Abaissés_. From the blast alone, Courfeyrac staggers back a few feet, but he also feels something scrape at his arm. Pain blooms, fresh and sharp, not so easily ignored as his blood only begins to boil. He needs some time more to prepare – there must be more time.

 

But no, there is not. A second blast of cannons leaves him ducking, the mast behind him creaking and groaning. The sound makes a mockery of human suffering.

 

To his left, Enjolras now sports a cut on his forehead, a bloodied piece of ship lying nearby. His back is pressed firmly to Grantaire’s front, whose arm is tight around the Captain’s waist after having pulled him out of the way. Courfeyrac does not believe it to be intentional, but Enjolras’ hand has come to grab Grantaire’s tightly in the process. Both of them breathe heavily, but they do not have time to lose. There is no time to examine what such an act might mean, not when Grantaire has let go to draw his own weapons, positioning himself close to Enjolras’ side.

 

Enjolras searches frantically for Courfeyrac, seeming lost, his eyes flitting around until at last they find him. The glance is returned. Both men nod.

 

“Prepare to enter!”

 

∞

 

The air is heavy with smoke and char long after they have won the day, the remainder of the sinking ship causes ripples in the water for quite some time, which Courfeyrac catches himself marveling at. Whatever the second warship had planned, it had been quick to retreat once they had gotten their hooks into the first. As it patrols the harbor now, possibly picking up survivors, it almost seems cowed, if a ship could assume a posture of that nature.

 

By some stroke of luck the _Adventure_ has taken a merchant ship hostage, the _Crowley,_ onto which some of their numbers have descended to ensure order. Courfeyrac is content to let Captain Hands handle that, he cares not at all to frighten passengers for sport.

 

Now it is a matter of assessing the damage done, and it is considerable. Three of their crew lie dead. Ménard rests among them, crushed first when the secured cannons came loose as he rushed to Courfeyrac’s aid, then swiftly struck down by a British soldier, the jest not yet fully delivered from his lips.

(“Truly, I should never let you go in fro--” he had gotten no further.)

 

Courfeyrac saw a man go overboard, but in the heat of battle he cannot dive after them – that would mean his own end. Other than his forehead, Enjolras has suffered a slice in his hand, where he gripped a blade to direct it from his person into his would-be assailant.

 

As Combeferre is busy sewing up someone’s throat, Courfeyrac watches Grantaire direct Enjolras to sit on a secured gun. When he begins cleaning Enjolras’ hands, Courfeyrac registers that, probably, he should be doing that, could be doing that, but his mind does not quite feel in the right place for it. Enjolras might need further care that might require the removal of his shirt – Courfeyrac should…he really should go to Enjolras, but his feet do not obey them. Something roots him firmly in place, he feels capable of nothing as he observes Grantaire clean the cuts with devotion.

 

He has seen fighting, more than he ever cared to, but there was something different in today. Not often does he feel such desperation, but today very nearly spelled his end, would have certainly done so if it had not been for Ménard. Instead, Ménard is gone now, too quickly for Courfeyrac to have done anything to stop it. Such failures leave a hollow feeling inside a man. It is not good to be so crassly reminded of the futility of one's efforts in the grand scheme of chance and fate. Grantaire must have taken injuries as well, or else disturbed old ones. The fabric upon his back is perforated with stains slowly spreading over the whole of him, but he works with undisturbed calmness.  

 

Enjolras says something to Grantaire that Courfeyrac cannot hear – the ringing in his ears has not entirely disappeared since cannons fired much too close to him all of a sudden, and everything feels as though he is underwater, or wrapped in a thick layer of cotton – but it does produce a smile on Grantaire’s face that Courfeyrac has never seen before. It looks fragile, as though the man himself is unpracticed in showing it and has reservations when it comes to doing so. But he shows it to Enjolras, and even across the deck of the ship, Courfeyrac feels as though he is intruding on a private moment. He does not know what to make of that.

 

Hardly any sound reaches him in this state, but that is not to say other sensations do not reach him, because from behind the rail, a hand grabs his own, and he nearly jumps out of his skin.

 

“Only me, not a siren come to fulfill your deepest desires,” Doctor Joly smiles at him, climbing up onto the railing with some effort, his rowboat tied to the ladder at the side of the ship. “I come instead to see if you have any medical supplies to spare – we seem to be out, and require them most urgently.”

 

Nothing makes sense to Courfeyrac currently, but Doctor Joly smiles at him when he points him to where he knows Monsieur Combeferre to be. L’Aigle spots him, and runs across the deck to shake his hand with unbridled enthusiasm. To Courfeyrac’s surprise, the Doctor shakes with equal fervor, before he begins fussing over The Eagle’s bruises, of which there are many. It almost looks as though the man fell upon his nose again, or at the very least received a very firm fist there.

 

His foot feels incredibly heavy and entirely severed from the rest of him, all at once, making itself known with some force now that he has begun to settle down once more. There is no bone sticking out, no blood, but there seems to be a considerable amount of swelling when he removes his boot and he dislikes that.

 

“Someone should have a look at that,” Monsieur Combeferre tells him, having silently – or perhaps very loudly, Courfeyrac would not know, in his current state – approached, his arms covered in blood up to his elbows, some of it dripping onto the deck. “We have lost Pierre. He took grapeshot to his stomach, there was little I could do but attempt to sew it up, only the blood loss was already too great, and there was too much shrapnel yet to be removed. I believe I might have found a coin in his intestines, but under the circumstances it is not quite as amusing as it could be.”

 

“May he rest in peace,” Courfeyrac croaks out, and accepts Monsieur Combeferre’s aid in hopping to the Captain’s cabin. They must pause several times on the way there, for Courfeyrac’s head starts spinning and he must rest a while against Monsieur Combeferre. Through the layer of the Doctor’s shirt he can feel a frantic heartbeat. He wishes he could hear it properly. He wishes he did not feel so wrung out. He wishes Ménard had not come to his aid--

 

“You are not usually so foolishly intrepid when fighting,” Monsieur Combeferre tuts as he rolls up Courfeyrac’s breeches to reveal more of his leg. “I saw you go down…that blast…”

 

“Pardon me, Doctor, next time I shall avoid having an explosion throw me across the deck if it will make you feel better.” He attempts to laugh and finds that it hurts to do so, not protesting when Monsieur Combeferre lifts his shirt to reveal several bruises along his ribcage, where he hit the mast. His hands are warm; Courfeyrac’s shirt soaks up much of the blood that Monsieur Combeferre has not been able to wash off himself yet.

 

“Really, this ought not have happened,” Monsieur Combeferre frowns, softly examining the bruised flesh. His body quite agrees with the doctor’s assessment. Courfeyrac points to the small trickle of blood beneath Monsieur Combeferre’s right eye.

 

“ _This_ is even more a shame to see, Doctor.”

 

“It is not mine,” Monsieur Combeferre insists automatically, as he always does.

 

“This time, I think you will find that it is – your glasses must have cut you when they were dislodged.”

 

“Ah, that’ll have been Jacques. Protesting treatment, his elbow made a victim of my face.”

 

He reaches out almost unconsciously, to wipe at the injury, to comfort. His vision is a tunnel in which he only sees Combeferre. A hand wraps around his wrist gently before he ever gets there. Only Combeferre does not remove the hand from his face, does not stop Courfeyrac from touching him, as he half expected he might. Instead he keeps it firmly in place, his thumb rubbing in soft strokes over the skin covering Courfeyrac’s pulse.

 

“I admit I did not, before today, see the appeal of going into battle myself,” Monsieur Combeferre sounds as far from composed as Courfeyrac has ever heard him. He cannot pretend it does not unsettle him. Nothing feels right about this day. Then he considers the hand still on his wrist, and concedes that this small action is exempt from his general assessment.

 

“Have you changed your mind on the necessity of it?”

 

“No, that is not it. My opinion of violence as a means to achieve peace is well-known to you, Courfeyrac. It was something Grantaire said to me last night as I treated him. He asked me why I do not take up arms if I can help it, if I did not wish to ensure that what I cherish might not be taken from me. That is what prompted my thoughts on the matter.”

 

Courfeyrac smiles at him.

 

“I am sure the concept of freedom you so love does not begrudge you your leanings.”

 

“Nothing so abstract as that, Courfeyrac. Freedom is easily protected by other means than a sword. A person, however, is entirely more fragile and prone to be a casualty – cannot be brought back, once gone.”

 

As he says this, his thumb presses meaningfully against Courfeyrac’s pulse, so urgently that, for a second, he believes he feels Combeferre’s beating right alongside his own in harmony.

 

Then there is a knock on the door.

 

∞

**May 15 th, 1718 – Charlestown Bay Area, South Carolina Colony**

“The casualties, Captain, are mounting! We have not the necessary supplies to bandage all the men that have need of it, and we risk greatly increasing the cost of lives this endeavor has asked of us if we do nothing about it! You would see your men die of injuries I might treat them for?” Doctor Joly shouts at Teague, face red, leaning half of his body onto a provisional cane. His knee has flared up; Courfeyrac has been informed the man has been suffering it periodically for years.

“The men have had no looting, and now you tell me to exchange our hostages for medicine rather than Charlestown’s treasury? It will not do, that is not why we came here.”

“Relieve the hostages of their valuables and clothing, anything that might sell, for all I care! But we need further supplies, lest infection spread to even those that came through the battle unscathed. Take care, Captain, not even you are guaranteed to survive in such a case.”

“Captain Teague,” Courfeyrac intercedes, when it seems Enjolras will not. The man is lost in thought, has been staring at his bandaged hands more than he has looked on anything else. “Does the _Crowley_ not have a logbook, in which the schedules of her sister ships might be noted? Surely, in such a busy harbor merchant ships are bound to arrive with some frequency? If word of our blockade has not travelled too far we shall soon find ourselves with easy targets and recompense for any man that fights solely for riches. You may readily exploit that at your leisure, but Doctor Joly is right. If we have no way to ensure we do not lose more men we may very well save ourselves the agony of waiting and run the ships aground now.”

“What say you to this, Captain Enjolras?” Teague asks, drawing Enjolras into a conversation he seems to want no part of.

“I know better than to question my surgeon when he tells me what he needs to save my crew.”

Teague allows those words to settle for a while before he makes his decision. “Oh, very good Joly, have it your way then. Take Monsieur Courfeyrac and someone else to select a hostage that might make our demands before the governor. But do so quickly, I will not waste our opportunity here because the men inland dawdle. If you are not returned in three days’ time, let the governor know I intend to ravage his precious city entirely.”

∞

Enjolras stops him as he is about to go over the railing, concern on his brow. Below him, Bahorel is whistling a jaunty tune Courfeyrac heard playing in some tavern years ago, and the horrified Mister Marks looks up at him with pleading, wet eyes.

“I do not mean to persuade you from doing this,” Enjolras begins, “But I do urge you to take care in regard to your foot. If it comes to a fight, do allow Bahorel to take the lead?”

“I would happily let him have it even in perfect health, rest assured,” Courfeyrac winks at him. His mind has not settled yet, and Enjolras’ words bring to mind Ménard in his final moments, grinning before blood bubbled up in his throat. Enjolras nods as if in agreement, then slips something into Courfeyrac’s waistcoat.

“And what is this? A secret letter perhaps, confessing you still wake up at night longing for my strong and ardent embrace?”

“If you prefer to read it as such,” Enjolras snorts, shaking his head fondly: “But I think you will have quite a bit of trouble finding evidence to support such an interpretation. No, this is…a collaboration of sorts, between Monsieur R and my pen. To be delivered to our friend, if you can find him. I do not think I must remind you how important it is that he is found?”

Oh. Well that is…a development.

“Perhaps I would feel more comfortable believing it to be a love letter after all, though I have read some of your more sentimental works and know I prefer your political polemic.” Courfeyrac grins in what he hopes to be a charming manner.

“Courfeyrac if you do not feel suited to the task-”

He knows what Enjolras is about to say. Courfeyrac doubts the man missed how he had drawn within himself after the battle, despite seemingly being preoccupied. Enjolras knows him well.

“No, no, that is quite enough of that,” Courfeyrac places his hand over the one Enjolras still has on his waistcoat. “I will do as you bid me, Captain. Now, if I do not make it back…”

“Do not speak of such possibilities,” Enjolras glares at him, concern swiftly overshadowed.

“Very well, then I will not tell you how much I have enjoyed the years we spent side by side or how dearly I would miss you. But fear not, for I have good reason to return here safe and whole.”

“This reason being?”

For a heartbeat, Courfeyrac finds himself back in Enjolras’ cabin, Monsieur Combeferre’s finger stroking his wrist softly, sees those eyes full of concern and impossible kindness. The image disperses. Once more he beholds Enjolras.

“Besides seeing society free of her chains, you mean? Do you not imagine I will want to hear how you managed to convince R to impart his knowledge unto you after all?”

“Be on your way,” Enjolras tells him, withdrawing his hand rather hastily, “And keep my words in mind.”

∞

**May 19 th, 1718 – A Tavern in Charlestown, South Carolina Colony**

“Do you imagine Mister Marks will find us here, Courfeyrac? We were under orders to remain at the lodgings he procured for us while he gathered the necessary supplies – this defies the order entirely! Already we have been gone from our ships too long!”

“Marks sent someone back to Captain Teague to inform him for the reason of our delay. You need not remind me of what happened, Jolllly, I lost both my boots when our rowboat capsized.”

It had been an awful struggle, to keep one’s chest above the water so as to avoid drenching and dissolving the ink on the valuable document one carries, without informing one’s traveling companions of the existence of such a document. And then there was the matter that Mister Marks, to add to his myriad shortcomings, is not a particularly strong swimmer. Thankfully Bahorel had delighted in the opportunity to frighten the man with his proximity.

“Then I do not see why we are here! You are a reasonable man, are you not? I know you to be! I beg of you, let us return to where Mister Marks may easily find us.”

Bahorel demonstrates his own joy at not being at their lodgings by clunking three tankards of ale onto their table, roaring: “Drink, good doctor, and let us be merry. We have left a message with our hosts, have we not? They shall find us if they have need of us.”

Acceptance, or more accurately, resignation, settles on Doctor Joly’s features as he allows Bahorel to offer a toast to him. It is, again and again, comical how sharply men recoil upon learning the strength with which Bahorel makes such toasts. Courfeyrac has a sip of his own drink before settling back to observe the tavern.

They have been on land for some time now, but it is only at this moment that he spots who he is looking for. He pushes his chair back loudly, stretching as he does, and excuses himself.

“And where might you be heading?”

“I spied an opportunity across the room just now, luring me in with beguiling eyes. I think you know well what I mean to do.”

Bahorel guffaws. To his surprise, it is Doctor Joly who encourages him.

“Well, be quick about it, if you can manage. I do not think Mister Marks will be much longer.”

“I, Doctor Joly, have a reputation to uphold.”

“You have no reputation of such a nature in Charlestown. Be quick about it.”

∞

The stretch of abandoned street behind the tavern is only dimly illuminated, and still Courfeyrac can make out the familiar silhouette. From the right, the loud noises of the main street offer some cover, a few stray rays of Charlestown’s lanterns reach where they stand.

“I had hoped we would run into one another. I must confess I am very glad you took my meaning and did not approach me inside.”

“Count yourself honored that I did not, I would have quite liked to drink with your sailing master once more. Does he still hold that title?” Jean Prouvaire turns around to look at him, sporting a hat that even Courfeyrac would find too daunting to ever place on his head.

“You may well approach him after we have had words.”

“I received a rather mysterious letter from Miss Fauchelevent, I confess, though intriguing enough to draw me here,” Prouvaire smiles. “The nature of this meeting still eludes me. What would you have of me, Monsieur?”

“The question is if you would be willing to do us a service, rather than having something of you.”

Prouvaire steps closer, his face at last comes into view, full of youthful exuberance and soft angles. “You have changed, Monsieur Courfeyrac. The man I knew some years ago would have by now implied at least twice that he should like to have anything I offered.”

Courfeyrac grins, tugging on Prouvaire’s braid. “Regretfully there is no time for that tonight, and a need for secrecy begs caution. There is a letter I carry that must reach England. The Captain would prefer to see it travel accompanied by someone he trusts.”

“Is this his great plan then?” Prouvaire wonders, eyes twinkling, “Has it at last come into fruition?”

“In recent weeks it has somewhat sprouted wings, and now it must attempt to fly.”

Prouvaire looks at Courfeyrac for a while longer, considering. “There is a great risk attached to what Enjolras asks of me. They will hang me, if they find it on my person. At the very least I may expect to spend the rest of my mortal life in the Tower.”

Courfeyrac need not confirm it. They both feel the truth of it in their bones, that the world has become so much more dangerous since last they saw one another. Prouvaire reaches into Courfeyrac’s waistcoat to produce the document, folding it neatly into his own garments. He wishes he could voice gratitude, but he is under no illusions. Prouvaire does this because he too believes in the future Enjolras has painted for them. It is not a favor he is doing them.

“How fares your young Doctor?”

“He is several years your senior, Prouvaire, I do not think he would appreciate you referring to him as such.”

“Do you imagine he would take objection to being referred to as yours?”

“I imagine he should object to anyone claiming to have ownership of him.”

“You willfully misinterpret my words. It is quite another thing to willingly belong to another person, on equal terms. Our species as a whole longs for that.”

“As ever your head is filled with such wistful notions, Prouvaire,” Courfeyrac sighs, “It is really very endearing. Combeferre is doing well. The crew is very lucky to have him.”

“You did not hesitate to speak on him in when last we saw one another. I remember that over some cups of ale I could not induce you to hold your tongue for even a Minute when it came to him.”

“Prouvaire – are we to spend all evening trying to make me confront my innermost thoughts? In that case I have a rather pleasant tankard of ale waiting for me inside that I would enjoy having instead.”

Prouvaire makes a show of heaping looks of chastisement on him.

“Very well, you stubborn darling, I shall not force it, thank me for it with some ale.Tomorrow, I ride for Chesapeake. Passage on a ship to London may easily be bought from there. Within two months you should have news of my arrival, if I am blessed enough that it comes to be.”

Prouvaire walks two steps towards the light, stops, says: “I shall go inside to greet Bahorel, and then in five minutes time you may join us and we shall merrily pretend to be reunited by chance. I take it that is what you would have me do?”

“What a fine strategist you would have made, Prouvaire…”

∞

**May 21 st, 1718 – Charlestown Bay Area, South Carolina Colony**

Monsieur Combeferre’s steady hand is the first to greet him, guiding him as he climbs back onto the ship. In the days spent on land he had almost forgotten how tall the man truly is, so that now he must squint up at him, the sun stark behind him.

“Have you good news?”

“I bring greetings from a friend, medical supplies from the terrorized citizens of Charlestown, and an invitation for the Captain to take a drink with Captains Teague and Bonnet – they wish to confer on how best to proceed, given that it appears in my absence you have plundered altogether eight unsuspecting merchant ships and have found no food to tide you over.”

“We have lost another man, while you were away. You were so regretfully delayed…”

“It could not be helped. The medicine was quickly gathered but there was the matter of my second task…it takes some time to locate a man in a foreign city.”

Combeferre nods, “A sacrifice was necessary. I understand, as does the Captain. Be easy, Courfeyrac.”

If it could but be so simple a thing.

∞

“This business of hopping from ship to ship tires one out so quickly, does it not?” Courfeyrac pants as they climb aboard the Revenge. His foot aches and complains at the effort, but he grits his teeth through it. In Charlestown he had been provided with excellent new boots, and the swelling has gone down since under the watchful eye of Doctor Joly, but the pain remains, intensifying sporadically in hot bursts.

He has not had much opportunity to rest it, has in fact played down the extent of his injury, knowing full well that Enjolras would have him bed-ridden if he were to find out every step he takes hurts. That will not do, not when he is needed.

“Ah, finally, the trinity is complete! Forgive me, Captain Enjolras, you are not a religious man, are you? I hope my words do not offend.” Captain Teague already has two cups at the ready, pressing one into Courfeyrac’s chest and the other into Enjolras’ hand.

“I care not an ounce if you blaspheme in my presence,” Enjolras assures him rather blandly. He is tired, but Captain Teague mistakes it for wit, and so laughs deeply.

“My crew has voted,” Teague wastes no time explaining, “As has the crew of the Revenge. We propose Beaufort Inlet next.”

“You would have us go farther north?” Enjolras frowns, putting down his cup to study the map before him. “Where would we restock? I know your stores are running low, same as ours. With luck we might make it back to Nassau without having to ration drastically, but that is only if the weather agrees with our plans. To force another blockade seems impossible.”

“It is a bold plan, certainly, but…”

“Yes, yes, but you favor a bold plan, I am aware. It has worked well here, I concede. But this, I believe, goes too far. We have no reason to sail to North Carolina, their ports are hardly large enough to send reinforcements to Rogers. Was that not the reasoning to your blockade here?”

“In part, certainly, but you cannot take the pirate out of a man, not for long,” Bonnet grins. “North Carolina holds more lucre than imaginable.”

Enjolras does not respond. He studies the map some more.

“Our crew is tired, we have lost brothers in this blockade,” Courfeyrac jumps in, noting how some of the tension in Enjolras’ shoulders eases as soon as he does. “They must recover, and they have expressed a wish to return to Nassau, so that they might defend it from there.”

“And you simply bow to their demands? I do not think it would take much to convince them.”

“A good captain listens to the desires of his crew,” Enjolras speaks once more. “I am not some tyrant, willing to dictate our course and expect them to obey. There is no sense in accompanying you to your inlet.”

To smooth the rough edges of such an announcement, Courfeyrac says: “We shall have a proper vote tonight, but I do believe that, come the morning, our paths will split.”

Captain Teague looks displeased, but at last he nods.

“Then let us drink once more to what we have achieved here. May it be enough!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -Taking the bad weather I have written into account here, and the fact that they're meeting up with Bonnet, and also that they have many ships, they take much longer than the supposed 3 days the journey would ideally be. It also gives R some time to recover. Artistic license!
> 
> -Kissing the Gunner's Daughter has, unfortunately, nothing to do with Courfeyrac kissing a suddenly-existing daughter Feuilly would have to have in this fic, but rather it refers to a pirate punishment where the offender bends over and is whipped. 
> 
> -They rendez-vous on what today is known as one of the Abaco Islands - it was called Man-o-War Cay, and I thought that was fitting, since their ship is a man-o-war. It wasn't 'inhabited' until 1783 when loyalists fleeing from New York settled there, which is to say: not enough white people had heard of it, therefore obviously it MUST have been uninhabited, right???? Research has not told me if indigenous folk were established there permanently. We also know that Charles Vane occasionally took refuge on one of the other islands there (Green Turtle Cay), so at least it's an authentic pirate spot tm.
> 
> -Stede Bonnet's nickname is historically accurate but not very catchy. His marketing team needs to hire better staff.
> 
> -The Charlestown blockade happened in late May, after Blackbeard declared himself Commodore, but I am loosely interpreting the word 'late' here. 
> 
> -Blackbeard did negotiate for medical supplies, and held the crew of the Crowley below deck for about half a day. The Governor folded in the face of such threats, and so one of the prisoners, along with two pirates (three in my story) were sent to land to collect everything. On the way into Charlestown Marks' boat capsized and delayed their arrival by some days, as a messenger relayed. 
> 
> -The return to the ship with the supplies was somewhat delayed because, while the medical supplies were available, Marks had some trouble finding his escorts again, as they were busy drinking in a tavern. I have incorporated that element to suit my story.


	6. On Ambushing Potential Allies and Having Tense Conversations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> @Bleulily I appreciate you so much you have no idea - i'll get around to answering you soon
> 
> Also whoops I will probably have trouble making daily updates happen from now on. I'll still try and get everything out as soon as possible though.

**May 30th, 1718 - Nassau, Caribbean**

Nothing has drastically changed in the weeks that they have been gone. All of Nassau’s trees remain as they were, her beach is still littered with tents, and her buildings yet stand. Nothing seems to have changed, except that there is a notable lack of recognizable vessels in port. Only two sit calmly on the water, and from the look of it they are small sloops with little to no cannons to outfit them, the rare type of merchant vessel that dares approach their shores once or twice a year. Nassau lies before them, utterly defenseless. Where the fuck has everyone gone?

 

Not even Hornigold’s flagship is at her designated place. That one almost never leaves the bay – her captain has found Nassau to be much too comfortable. He has settled here, has exerted influence and mediated conflicts, has established a life for himself. Now he is gone. It does not bode well.

“I must say I thought you hated that shirt,” Courfeyrac approaches Enjolras on deck as soon as they are in familiar waters again. Bahorel can easily navigate them from here on out, Courfeyrac is no longer needed, and it does his foot some good to be afforded even minute rest every now and then. Enjolras is watching the waves, thoughtful but aware of his surroundings.

 

“I like it well – but it is too liable to tear for me to wear it on a daily basis. Currently it is the only one I own not covered in blood.”

 

“I imagine you would not be able to tell if it were, given the color,” Courfeyrac grins, coming to stand next to him. “Does the scene before us look odd to you as well?”

 

“No _Ranger_ , contrary to our earnest hopes,” Enjolras notes, confirming Courfeyrac’s observations. “Can it be that Captain Vane abandoned Nassau after all?”

 

“If that were the case we would be well and truly fucked, if you will pardon such crass language. We are but one ship.”

 

“So we are. The men will not like it,” Enjolras predicts. “Once they have whored and drank their fill, that is. Then they will come to us and complain that we did not join Teague after all, already hazy on the gory details of Charlestown.”

 

“We did nothing to sway their sentiments, and the vote was clear,” Courfeyrac says, “They may blame you for it, but I certainly will not. Still, we must decide what is to be done. To defend Nassau with a single ship…I cannot imagine they will be up for that. Some, perhaps, but we will have trouble convincing them, I expect.”

 

Enjolras only hums in response, continues looking out onto this odd picture before them.

 

“You have been avoiding me, Enjolras.”

 

No time like now to confront the man about it. Once on dry land, their respective duties render time for conversation quite the rare good, perhaps more so now that they do not know what awaits them. They shall each have more piled onto their plate. He only hopes they will be able to stomach all of it.

 

“Not quite,” Enjolras admits, “I have been avoiding the conversation you mean to have.”

 

“Did you imagine I would interrogate you if you did not wish to share? Have you ever known me to do that?”

 

“If I but knew what there was to share, I would do so.” Enjolras’ hands, still bandaged but quite on the mend, trail over the Wood, caress it. “He did not tell me why he changed his mind. After the initial fighting at Charlestown…he came to my cabin and bid that I write down what he was about to say because he did not wish to repeat himself. He did not seem convinced that it would be worth it.”

 

“And…you have no idea why a man would do such a thing?”

 

Enjolras grows irritated: “That is what I have just said, is it not? He confuses me.”

 

He leaves Courfeyrac standing alone at the railing and goes to stand by Bahorel instead. Across the deck, Courfeyrac watches Grantaire’s eyes following the Captain, quickly averted when Grantaire in turn notices his observer. If Enjolras would look – if he would truly look, just once – there would be no room left for confusion.

 

∞

“Miss Éponine!”

 

Éponine looks up from where she is currently – unsuccessfully, as the boy keeps squirming and gesticulating wildly – trying to mend Gavroche’s left pant leg. A tear has left his knee quite exposed to the elements, and the skin shown is reddened and blotchy, irritated from someone worrying it, most likely. Gavroche climbs trees when he has nothing else to do, and his knees as well as the last shreds of his clothing suffer for it. Courfeyrac swears he must have grown even more, though perhaps it is merely that the thread of his pants has come so far undone, and that is why they now appear shorter. He has never been happier to see her, but she is not smiling at all. No, if he did not know any better, he would mark her expression as distressed.

 

“No new hat, I see. Was Charlestown all out?”

 

She dusts herself off and stands up to offer her hand. Courfeyrac takes it firmly. That is a new development. Still, she does not protest the coin he gives her. It disappears somewhere in the folds of her skirts, that haphazardly patched together garment Courfeyrac occasionally calls a labyrinth.

 

(“Oh, I should hope no man may find his way through it,” Éponine had been amused when he mentioned it.)

 

“Unfortunately not, no, though they have given me some of the town’s finest boots,” Courfeyrac sighs as he runs a hand over his dirty hair. “I see today you have brought my best informant right to me.”

 

“Why’d’ya come back?” Gavroche asks, wide eyed and a little nervous. “Hornigold went hunting for ya, did ya fight him? Is he done with?”

 

That would certainly explain the absence of his fleet, but the news is nonetheless worrisome.

 

“Hornigold…pardon me, you mean to say he hunts pirates now?”

 

“Got a special dispensation for it from this Rogers fellow that ain’t even arrived yet, didn’t he? Drove Captain Vane right away from here and now no one’s left, right? Scoundrels are creeping in and Nassau is free for the taking.”

 

Behind him, Jacques – with his arm still in a sling - has brought about the first wagon to pile their haul onto. One by one the wagons begin to fill as Courfeyrac grows more concerned. There is no easy way to break such news to a crew – he knows it is his responsibility to do so, so he must figure out a way to do it, and quickly, too. Enjolras remains on board a while longer, to make a list of necessary repairs with The Eagle. He can offer no advice right now.

 

“You mean to tell me there is currently no captain in Nassau? Not one, save for whoever commands the merchant vessels?”

 

He has never known such a situation. There is no law that demands at least one pirate captain stay behind. Nassau will not dissolve into nothingness, the world will not fall into disrepair, but it is still quite novel and as Gavroche said: it leaves her vulnerable. And if Hornigold intends to hunt them, well then they are sitting ducks on this Island, and he is savvy to their ways. Nassau’s port is narrow. A ship in her harbor relies on the protection of the fort, which he does not doubt is currently unmanned. Nassau has no local militia, there was never a need for one before.

 

How can he possibly ask the men to fight for this island, for their right of self-determination, if even the man that made this island what it is has turned on it to save his own skin? There is a brief notion in Courfeyrac’s head, a short exploration of what would happen if he did not inform the men of what he has learned. But they are sure to find out – if not through him, then once Thénardier gets their Attention, and he is certain to. No, they must be told. They deserve to be told, at the very least, so that they may make the decision to stay behind and fight or to take flight towards a more settled life.

 

“Well I wager when Enjolras makes land there’ll be one, won’t there?” Gavroche tells him with a healthy amount of cheek. “But otherwise, ya, that’s what I mean ta tell ya.”

 

Éponine gets her fingers into Gavroche’s mop of hair and tugs, leading to the boy flailing his arms about as he tries to dislodge them. “Go about your business, Gav. I’ll accompany Monsieur Courfeyrac to old Gillenormand and get him caught up.”

 

 

∞

 

Nassau’s forest is lush and green, though in the darkness its vibrancy is hard to appreciate. Courfeyrac has to admit that he has hardly ever taken the time to observe the wildlife around him when he walks these paths with the sun on his neck. Today has left him wondering if he will have that chance at all. Éponine hums as she walks beside him, in tune with the cacophony of noises heard all around them. The torch in her hand helps the pale moonlight sufficiently, so that they do not risk tripping over stray roots on the forest floor.

 

Their wagons have been delivered, a deal has been struck. His mind has not settled.

 

Gillenormand seems resigned to a future working under the watchful eyes of Governor Rogers, but equally determined to make the best of the time left until the man finally arrives. If Courfeyrac is not mistaken, the man appeared almost saddened to learn of their landing at Nassau.

 

(“As for the future…who can say what it brings? For me, perhaps, it will bring back my grandson. Oh, he writes me such heartfelt letters that speak of his politics, senseless as they are, and I have the servants watch him when he goes into town with that Fauchelevent girl, but I have not spoken to him since our disagreement, have not looked upon him myself. How hateful he is to me. It is regrettable, Monsieur Courfeyrac, that he does not see the secure future I mean to build him with my dealings.”)

 

Courfeyrac fears he may have recently lost an ability he once possessed, which allowed him to always say the right thing at the right time. He had been speechless. The events of today had thrown him, unexpectedly. No, right now he is not in top form. A million things beg his consideration – this matter of Enjolras and their newest crew member, the matter of defending Nassau, the matter of possibly doing it all on their own, the matter of a death sentence looming ominously above all of their heads, like a snake only waiting for the most opportune time to finally sink its lethal teeth into an unsuspecting victim, or else wrap itself around a neck and choke, much like the noose that has surely been readied for him somewhere.

 

Instead his mind is filled with thoughts of soft eyes and touches. Such thoughts come at precisely the wrong time. How can he make the crew’s needs a priority if he cannot even begin to ponder a strategy for their future? Idly, the thought of recusing himself from the position he has held for so long now crosses his mind. He cannot help but go down that path in his mind.

 

(“A word of advice, Monsieur,” Gillenormand had patted him on the shoulder, “Take your earnings and leave this place. You are young. I dare say you are bound to find a wife that is good and lovely, who will gladly settle down with you. Hell, I should hate to see a man as charming as you hang in the square.”)

 

But that thought had been dismissed as quickly as it had arrived, before it ever had a chance to cross the threshold into the deeper recesses of his mind and settle there. Enjolras needs him – what is more, an entire crew relies on him to be their center, to assure that each man may get what is owed. If he walks away from that he may consider himself no better than Hornigold. Wealth and plunder – Courfeyrac will not die for that; he will not even begin to consider it. To die for a brother is a different matter.

 

Éponine is not very talkative tonight, but Courfeyrac can do well with silence. After spending weeks on a ship with a loud, rowdy group of people, some quiet is precisely what he needs to feel himself again. Occasionally even he must be left alone with his thoughts, though that cannot be kept up indefinitely. At some point Courfeyrac feels he would wither if he had no one to talk to. Sometimes the men play a game, in the prelude to a battle, of imagining worse ways to die than by the sword. Courfeyrac has never deviated from the answer he always gives. To die alone, in isolation, slowly: there is nothing worse than that. Marooned and forgotten, to fade away into nothingness with not a soul to witness your plight? Nothing can rival the horridness of that. Nothing can rival the thought that no one will mourn you once you are gone.

 

This peaceful journey side by side in the dark, however, is quite alright. Despite the silence between them he does not feel alone, and he knows well that the mere presence of another being can ease loneliness. He has too much to think about, in any case, and too little time to do so properly, to provide Éponine with the entertainment she is deserving of.

 

Which is why it comes as such a surprise when Éponine, all of a sudden, gets it into her head to grab the back of his coat and yank him to a stop, one finger pressed to her lips. Her hand does not linger long on his body for long.

 

“Fucking come out and face us you cowards, we know you’ve been following us for at least a hundred paces now,” Éponine yells into the darkness. Courfeyrac is ashamed to note that he had not been aware of that fact and feels a surge of gratitude that at least one of them had been paying attention. It is easy to grow complacent because one has walked a path many times, unaware of the possible dangers lurking about. Usually he knows better. To his left a branch snaps, and after some rustling, three men step into their path, making space for a fourth, much more familiar man. Even before the firelight reveals his face Courfeyrac knows who stands before them.

 

Éponine does not hesitate before she has her knife out of her belt and at the nearest throat she can get to. She is too fast for the man to draw a blade of his own, but his companions make up for that.

 

“Easy, girl, we’ve no quarrel with you,” Charles Vane tells her, a knife in each hand and four pistols strapped across his chest for good measure. Courfeyrac was equally not aware that they had a quarrel with _him_ , but instead of mulling over what could have possibly induced them to try and ambush him, he pulls his own blade free smoothly. His reaction is hardly unprovoked, and knowing well how readily these men settle scores with weapons he feels it justified.

 

“We’ve _maybe_ got a quarrel with you, come to that,” Vane tells him, the red of his beard resembling the fire of Éponine’s torch when he steps closer.

 

“Would you mind terribly telling me which of my actions you take umbrage at? I admit to a small bit of confusion, nothing more – yet.”

 

There is already some confusion at Vane’s presence on the island, given the lack of his ships in their harbor. He must have stowed his fleet elsewhere, rowed to Nassau. Perhaps they are even floating around the back of the island. Hardly any activity around those parts, it would be easy to accommodate a few men there in secret. The forest offers protection to those who know how to live within it. In retrospect, Courfeyrac believes this might have been more obvious, had he thought about it a while longer, but alas his thoughts have not been subject to his control recently. No one loves Nassau as Captain Vane does.

No one else so adamantly calls this island his home.

 

“The _Abaissés_ has made port in Nassau,” Vane sheathes one of his knives to be able to cross his arms, so that the full effect of his intimidating presence may be impressed upon Courfeyrac. “Her intentions are unclear.”

 

“Well she’s a ship,” Courfeyrac snorts, “I doubt she means to do anything but float, if the weather remains pleasant.”

 

While immensely popular among his crew, it seems not to be due to a spectacular sense of good humor, for Vane does not as much as blink. He takes a few threatening steps towards Courfeyrac, until Courfeyrac’s blade enforces a small measure of distance. For a second Courfeyrac believes the man might simply walk into it, if only to prove that in the end such weapons have no way of stopping him – but even Charles Vane bleeds as the rest of them do. Courfeyrac might know a few men that seek out wounds in battle as they would a cup of rum, but this is no battle. Not yet, at least. Perhaps not ever, for while he is quite rightfully impressed with Éponine’s fighting spirit and the quickness of her reactions, she is a small girl, underfed half her life. If they were up against two of Vane’s men, he would be glad to have her as his second, count himself honored, even. Against four of them he would prefer Bahorel. As Bahorel is not here, Courfeyrac will do his level best to avoid a fight.

 

“And her captain? What am I to make of his presence here, when Teach and Bonnet remain absent? Is it that you mean to do what Hornigold could not, or are _they_ lying in wait for my return, to capture me and ingratiate themselves to Rogers when he comes?”

 

“They had ambitions for further plundering up north, we did not. Our paths split amicably, I assure you, with no intention of delivering you to any government’s authority.”

 

“I can assure you they do not mean to plunder,” Vane growls, “They mean to accept pardons, those fuckers, I know it. Right from the get go, though they did a fine job convincing their crews they would not. Cowardly little rats, the lot of them.”

 

Bonnet might, he has already indicated as much – but Teague? That hardly seems plausible.

 

“Let them try, they will hang for it.”

 

Vane growls. Courfeyrac supposes it is a sound of assent, or of reluctant hope. A wish he does not dare voice, so Courfeyrac elaborates.

 

“We have studied the letters sent with them - the pardons only expunge crimes leading up to the fifth of January. The blockade was in Blackbeard’s name, he made no secret of it, I quite doubt that he shall get off scot free. He did not seem stupid enough to try, though I concede you know him better.”

 

“Governors are easily persuaded to overlook that, when you grease them up just right. Teach has amassed enough to settle down, and comfortably too, I think. We had news that all he demanded was a chest of medicine and some fucking laudanum. That does not speak of a man willing to burn all bridges with the Crown.”

 

“It was at our request that he did not ask for their combined riches. The men were dying of their wounds, we had no way else to help them. Did no word reach you of the eight ships we plundered?”

 

“Such things are often exaggerated,” Vane’s mouth is set in a hard line. “His reputation precedes him, and he often leaves the ships he enters unmolested. Already Thénardier is praising the virtue of privateering in his tavern, his behavior in the past used as a model example, no doubt getting paid for it too by those that would see their ambitions for Nassau’s future as a model colony realized. Captain Teach has never been a man to close a door if it may be kept open.”

 

“I imagine most men are not, but Captain Enjolras means to do no such thing,” Courfeyrac assures him.

 

“I’m just supposed to take you at your word then?” Captain Vane scoffs. “For all I know you’ll take up with Hornigold once he comes back, save your sorry little soul. You as good as admitted that most men would take the opportunity offered, would you see yourself removed from that list?”

 

“Hornigold is a traitor to us all and I fear if I saw him honor would demand I spit in his face before he as much as got a beguiling word past his lips. No, I do not think he will convince me to lay down arms.”

 

Captain Vane laughs, just a little. Tension eases from the faces of the men flanking him.

 

“I might even let you go first, if it should come to that, for that, I would like to see. Send word to your captain that I mean to speak with him.”

 

Then he turns to Éponine: “I do not suppose you’d care to join us? We have use of someone like you around these parts, and I believe you’d do well in leading Captain Enjolras to a meeting spot of my choosing.”

 

She lowers the knife from the neck of a now pitifully shaking man and shrugs.

 

∞

 

He pauses just outside the captain’s tent when he hears voices inside.. It does not take him long to figure out that the second belongs to someone other than Combeferre – the only one besides Courfeyrac admitted to Enjolras’ tent at this hour. Already, within so few hours, the most likely fate to await him in a few months’ time has changed twice, and now it would seem the day has a third surprise in store for him.

No, that is most certainly not Combeferre, Courfeyrac realizes when the voices grow louder. He believes he may be hearing Grantaire from within the tent. Thus begins a conflict – does he intrude to inform Enjolras of his encounter with Captain Vane? He does not think Enjolras means for him to know that he and Grantaire have hushed conversations, late at night. Most likely he would not deny it if asked, but he has not come forward about it of his own volition, and this hardly seems the premiere of such a visit.

 

“And why are you waiting around in the dark?” Combeferre asks him in a whisper, his footsteps light on the still warm sand. Now that the sun no longer shines, it has cooled to an almost pleasant temperature that leaves many men barefoot to enjoy it properly, the surgeon among them.

 

“Enjolras has company.” Courfeyrac settles on that phrasing. It manages to properly convey the significance of the event.

 

“Then surely we ought not intrude?”

 

From the way Combeferre peers down at him over the rim of his glasses, Courfeyrac gets the distinct feeling that he is being scolded.

 

“Maybe so, but I bear news of some importance.”

 

“I prefer to trust my men implicitly, Monsieur,” Enjolras’ voice is harsh, rising in volume as their previously hushed conversation devolves into an argument.

 

“ _Trust_? You don’t trust any of them, Captain, saving for the Quartermaster and maybe your surgeon. You’ve not told a single one of them about your grand plans. None of them know why you targeted the ship transporting me. You lie to them every day when you--”

 

Courfeyrac hears Combeferre hold his breath next to him.

 

“When I what, Monsieur?”

 

“When you spin them stories of intending to make them rich men, or rather have your Quartermaster spin them. When you make it seem as though you have any interest in piracy yourself.”

 

“I have been a captain for some years now, that requires at least a nominal interest in this kind of life, would you not agree?”

 

“No,” Grantaire says, voice softening once more. “No, I think if that were the case I would not have found you retching after Charlestown, your eyes puffy from tears you did not wish the crew to see. I think if that were the case you would have not kept me around after you learned that I came onto your ship under false pretenses, I believe you would have sold me out, and yet you have not as much as breathed my name around anyone that might know what to do with it. I think if this kind of life were truly what you cared about you would keep _some_ of the haul for yourself, at the very least.”

 

“Be very careful about your next words,” Enjolras warns him.

 

“I think…” Grantaire’s next inhale is shaky, as though he means to steady his voice with it. Courfeyrac hears rustling within the tent he cannot identify, a few footsteps are taken. Enjolras breathes sharply. “I believe you see this life as a necessary evil, nothing more. It offers you a chance to do what you would otherwise never be able to, and you think you’re the only one capable of doing it, so you do not let your men in on it. Because you do not trust them to join you if you proposed what you have shared with me.”

 

A sigh from Enjolras; if Courfeyrac did not know any better he would think the man was currently deflating.

 

“You are wrong,” he tells Grantaire.

 

“Oh am I? No, I do not think so.”

 

“There are many men capable of it. You yourself quite astutely observe all that is wrong with the world, and would you set your mind to bring about change I do not believe you would be less capable than I,” Enjolras explains, pausing briefly, “I think I am the only one _willing_ to do it.”

 

“So you exhaust yourself and go with all you’ve got up against a world that does not wish to be changed? Do you not see that you are fighting a losing battle here? That you have been losing it from the very second you ever thought about picking up a sword in the name of freedom? No, you must see it, you must be aware. Your eyes are much too heavy for a man of your age, much too hard already. You know I am right, and still you fight.”

 

“Maybe you are right, Grantaire. I hope you are not, but let us entertain the notion that you are for but a moment. Once I have realized the injustices before me, and then do not seek to better them, eradicate them, change them...what kind of man does that make me, do you think?”

 

“Ah yes, that would make you a man like myself. How pathetic that notion would be! How inconceivable that you should be in any way like this wretch before you!”

 

“Grantaire that is not what I meant to imply…” Enjolras stops short, makes an aborted attempt at rephrasing, huffs out a frustrated breath.

 

“Never you mind, _mon capitaine_ , do not fret that your words might have caused me offense. I have not given you a proper answer, and you surely deserve one. I say this: it would make you a smart man, a man who has a good chance of seeing his eightieth year or more still by living quietly and sensibly in a cottage by the sea, with wife and children if he so desires it, a man who goes to bed each night with a full belly and knows he must not break his back just to survive the next morning.”

 

“You would have me pursue such a thing, I suppose?”

 

“I would have you live, at the very least, and not fling yourself on the first scaffold to offer to make a martyr of you,” Grantaire scoffs, though Courfeyrac hears a desperate edge of something more in his voice. He realizes a second later that the man is pleading with Enjolras.

 

“I have had that life, could have had that life and greater comforts still, and I ran from it. I would wake up every morning, angry at myself for my own complacency, for taking what was produced by the many through toil and trouble and giving nothing back. All day I would sit at my window and read – you know this, Monsieur, it was you who accused me of being too well-read in the realm of philosophy. I would grow angry at the state of things, I would debate at the dinner table for what I believed in as my father groaned in exasperation, and yet do nothing about it because I did not see how I possibly could, because I did not truly look for a way to change what I, as you do now, saw as unchangeable, set in stone.”

 

“Enjolras…”

 

“I see things differently now. A life at sea has changed me, a life like this has given me a chance to finally better at least some of the many injustices that poison our world.This…my actions in the name of this cause have been despicable, that is true, yes. You have called me cruel. No, do not dare to take those words back now that you have known me some time, you were right, though I can see that you now regret having declared me so. Why? You were right! Some of what I have done has not been right. I am under no illusion that if at the end of this mortal life there should be a trial of my innocence I would not pass muster, but I have done what I deemed, at the very least, necessary. For that, I believe I could easily face an eternity of fiery torment. Let me bear the consequences of my own actions, will you not do that? A life as you have described to me, a life in which I rest easy on the exploitation of my fellow beings… that is not a life worth living, Grantaire.”

 

Combeferre’s hand, resting gently on his shoulder, pulls him away from the tent. “We ought to give them privacy, as I said.”

“Now you decide to remind me? I believe their conversation to be nearly over.”

“That is precisely why I mean to lead you from here. Do you not see that if Grantaire knew what we have overheard he would have some cause to be embarrassed? Come, tell Enjolras what you have learned in the morning and rest a while. You have been on your feet too long and your shoulders are slumped already. Rest with me, Courfeyrac.”

∞

 

**June 7 th, 1718 – The Forests of Nassau**

“Éponine, remind me again why he must have this meeting at night?” Enjolras frowns as they accompany the girl deeper into the thicket. Courfeyrac does not think he has ever been to this part of the island. In any case he does not know the thicket well, because he has repeatedly gotten tangled in all manner of growth. There are no farms to be found for miles, no evidence of the human species left for posterity. Sometimes Courfeyrac marvels that the entirety of their world might have once been as such, untouched and untried, uncorrupted – in balance. Captain Vane chose his hideout well.

 

“Captain Vane and his men are wary of anyone else guessing at their presence on the island.”

 

“You have spent the past weeks with them, Éponine,” Enjolras begins, “I trust you would tell me if they meant to betray us?”

 

Éponine sighs, a most uncommon sound from her. “Do you know, there is frequent talk of overtaking that Monsieur Marius who lodges with the Fauchelevents. He’s been talking in town, with some of the men still indecisive, trying to convince them to see the benefit of being pardoned. A passionate orator, a great deal of potential if he didn’t ply them with sentiment for a French King none of them knew or had much love for.”

 

“You are worried for him?” Enjolras inquires. He tracks her meaning well.

 

“I believe,” she says meaningfully, “That it would do him a great deal of good to receive some education on the nature of Nassau, and I’d rather see him receive it in words than blades or fists.”

 

Enjolras looks at her sideways. He nods at Éponine. “We will have words with him then.”

 

“Good.” Éponine’s face is stoic. “I’ve heard nothing of Vane hiding sinister intentions. I believe your quartermaster has quite convinced him of your desire to fight for Nassau, and he has had news that your crew voted to remain here for the time being. I would not worry, if I were you.”

 

Enjolras offers her a pleased little smile, and the two continue walking ahead of Courfeyrac side by side with nothing but the sounds of the forest between them.

 

∞

 

 

Their camp – if one loosely defines the word – is crude at best. Men are stretched out on the forest floor, some leaning back against trees to whittle, others to sharpen their blades, and others amuse themselves with games. There are no bedrolls to speak of, no adequate roof above their heads, no shelter to be found. How long, Courfeyrac wonders, have they been living like this?

 

Most of the men look unconcerned, though he notes a few faces filled with discontent, among them a man Courfeyrac recognizes easily by the atrocity of his powdered head as Vane's quartermaster Rackham. How any man keeps his hair powdered in the humidity of such a forest is beyond him.

 

“Captain Vane,” he announces their arrival loudly, keeping his voice jovial. Éponine has scurried off into the trees to join a slender figure at a nearby bonfire. Courfeyrac knows her as well, fears her even.

 

“I did not think Vane would continue to let her sail with him, once he found her and Rackham together,” Enjolras whispers, astounded, having followed Courfeyrac’s line of sight.

 

“He offered Éponine a spot on his crew,” Courfeyrac shrugs, “It seems the man cares little to indulge old superstitions and allows any women that can fight onto his ships. Dear ‘Ponine refused him on account of Gavroche, I presume, but I take it she was very flattered nonetheless.”

 

“The fuck are you looking at?” She yells across the clearing, already in the process of standing up.

 

Enjolras inclines his head with a careful smile, “Good evening, Miss Bonny. Good to see you well.”

 

Before she can say anything else, Charles Vane steps out from behind a tree. “Captain Enjolras. I hear you do not drink rum, but we have only that or slightly muddy water, so what will it be?”

 

“I think I will take the rum then, if you can part with it.”

 

“There is no chair for you to sit in either, come to think of it,” Vane makes an odd noise with his mouth, half huff and half a click of his tongue.

 

“Standing has not grown tiresome yet, I doubt you intend to talk through the night.”

 

Perhaps it has not grown so for Enjolras, but Courfeyrac already feels exhaustion set in after the walk. His foot is numb now, where earlier it had burned as though someone built a pyre around it with the express intention of torturing him. A log, the floor – anything might serve him at this moment, but if Enjolras does not sit, neither can he. This is Courfeyrac’s own fault, he concedes. If he had mentioned the injury still gave him trouble Enjolras would have taken care to find suitable arrangements. But Enjolras does not know, and to bring it up now would prove disastrous. No, Courfeyrac has no intention of appearing weak, not now.

 

He wonders, briefly, if there will ever come a time when he can properly mourn that his foot will likely never be entirely free of pain again, but then he must put such thoughts aside to follow the conversation once more.

 

“…I piss on all of them. The crown, Teach, Hornigold, and this fucker Rogers, but you understand, Mister Enjolras, why I am wary of placing trust in you?”

 

“I would seek to assure you of our good intentions,” Enjolras shrugs, unconcerned and understanding.

 

“That is the response I had hoped for,” Vane nods, leaning back against a tree. It is odd to have a meeting where anyone might listen, and he supposes that is what makes Vane so popular. Men appreciate transparency from their leader, he supposes, and to have his crew sit around as they talk is as transparent as it gets. “Tell me, you’ve heard the rumors that have been stirring up the coast from Nassau to Connecticut, haven’t you?”

 

“Of the English traitor, yes,” Enjolras agrees.

 

“The rumors only ever grow. Now they are saying the man might still be alive somewhere, that he bribed his captors to mutiny and turned pirate himself. The Royal Navy is falling all over itself to look for leads.”

 

“Unlikely,” Enjolras says simply, “Since we found that ship and burned it.”

 

A slow whistle resounds from somewhere behind Courfeyrac. The clearing seems to lose a bit of tension.

 

“I’ll be honest with you, Captain,” Vane says, lifting his cup, “We knew that. But none of us thought you’d admit it. Many a bet was placed.”

 

“I see no reason to lie if we are to be allies. The Protestant Caesar is no more, her crew perished with her.”

 

“And the traitor?”

 

Enjolras has a sip of his drink, slow and considering. “My quartermaster found only a shackled man already dead, the blood on him still fresh where someone cut his neck to the bone.”

 

Charles Vane considers Enjolras a while longer, until a satisfied smile unfurrows his brow.

 

“That’s good, I suppose – removes the temptation of that particular reward. To alliances forged!”

 

Enjolras echoes the sentiment with a smile of his own. Courfeyrac feels rather dizzy.

 

∞

 

**June, 18 th, 1718 – An Evening on the Beach of Nassau**

 

Marius arrives as Courfeyrac finishes blotting the ink dry on his final draft of the pamphlet. He hands it to Combeferre, who leans back against the table to study it, waving Courfeyrac off so that he may greet the two arrivals.

 

“Miss Euphrasie,” Courfeyrac greets her with a kiss to her hand, as is proper. Some women do enjoy that, even if he does not habitually consort with such women. “Your very presence has already made the evening a much more delightful prospect.”

 

“It would look to be so,” she smiles. “Is Éponine around?”

 

“No, she is…”

 

Well, he cannot tell the girl she is living in the forest with Captain Vane and his crew, not if their presence is to remain unknown. “She is indisposed for tonight, has business of her own to attend to, you know how she so often is nowhere to be found.”

 

“Oh,” the girl deflates, “A pity. I rather hoped I might have some words with her tonight. I have not seen her in weeks – she no longer comes to visit me and Papa, you see?”

 

“I am sure she will soon grace you with her presence again,” Courfeyrac grins.

 

“Monsieur Pontmercy,” he addresses a man that now looks much more acclimatized than when Courfeyrac first met him. “You are looking well.”

 

They shake hands. Courfeyrac offers his arm to Euphrasie, who takes it gladly. He thinks Monsieur Pontmercy might be rather vexed that he had not thought to do so. Courfeyrac is quick to make introductions, though only some of their men are at the beach tonight. A number of them have gone to drink the brothel dry and shower the girls there in gold.

 

Combeferre’s hand on the elbow not currently occupied by a beautiful young woman alerts him to the man’s presence, and the letter is slipped into his coat pocket. Combeferre moves to stand next to Enjolras, greeting Monsieur Pontmercy with a polite but impersonal nod.

 

“I believe I would like to take a quick turn along the water,” Euphrasie announces, right on cue. “Monsieur Courfeyrac do you believe you might possibly accompany me? The waves are rather forceful tonight, are they not? I might be swept away if I have nothing to hold on to.”

 

“If my captain does not require me,” Courfeyrac looks at Enjolras for confirmation, who waves him off. Monsieur Pontmercy looks as though he might very much like to object, but he admirably reins himself in.

 

“Dear girl,” Courfeyrac laughs, when they are some distance away, “You really have a knack for this kind of subterfuge, do you not?”

 

“There is little else to do on a farm but practice telling lies to the animals,” she grins, accepting the letter from Courfeyrac. It disappears into her bosom, and then their walk continues, barely interrupted. “Where do you mean for me to send this one?”

 

“I have not told you of the nature of this letter, and once I do, please do not feel obligated to hold onto it if you do not wish to be so involved.”

 

“Oh my…” She says, pretending to fan herself.

 

“Some months past you procured a schedule for me, for that act alone I remain forever grateful,” Courfeyrac begins, “We have been successful in this endeavor, at last. You know well what complications we faced.”

 

“What have you learned?”

 

“You may read that for yourself if you so wish. It is, well the secret he was carrying was a delicate one. It could, for once, do lasting damage to the political dynamic in Europe.”

 

“Truly lasting, or does that merely mean a few years, as it so often does?”

 

“Well I am no king,” Courfeyrac allows, “But if I were I believe I would care very much to keep the contents of that letter secret.”

 

“That is something, I suppose,” Euphrasie frowns, “Not quite what we hoped for though, is it?”

 

“Perhaps we put too much stake in the secrets overheard by a single man. Perhaps not, it might yet be enough. We have sent a man to England with the demands set – Enjolras wishes for me to extend his gratitude as well, for providing insight into English law that we did not have. Your father must be very proud to have raised a woman such as you.”

 

“But you need a failsafe, hence the flattery.”

 

Her smile is sunny and really quite infectious.

 

“Do not mistake this for my intent, Miss Euphrasie,” he begins carefully, “But there is a very good chance that we may be dead soon. If that is the case, we would wish for you to spread the contents of the letter you now carry. Ideally we would not place you in such a situation, however…”

 

“I will do it,” Euphrasie’s voice rings determined. “Fret not, Monsieur Courfeyrac. My father is aware of what danger might await us, as am I, and I assure you we have become quite adept at disappearing when circumstance requires it. I have enjoyed the years I have been allowed in Nassau, but I will not mourn her shores if I should leave. I would miss only…a certain…well-”

 

“She will come see you soon, I think. Not to bring you letters from me, this time. You will see, Cosette, that she is not as indifferent to you as you claim.”

 

“If you saying so would only make it true, Monsieur Courfeyrac, I would be quite content,” Euphrasie laughs. “I believe we have walked enough distance to constitute a quick turn, have we not? Let us return to camp, the waves really do so eat away at my hemline.”

 

The distance back is covered quickly. Miss Euphrasie is a delightful conversationalist, and Courfeyrac need hardly prompt her. They arrive as Monsieur Pontmercy is spectacularly worked up, words flowing from his mouth before he can think better of them.

 

“But to be, in this world, a force to be reckoned with, a people united under a glorious King that is good and just, that knows precisely where he wishes to lead, that desires what is best for his subjects…to have a history one can be proud of, to have something one can claim for their own, a victory won by all in the name of country and glory, be that on the battle field or in far-away places…to establish an order, a code, a law dictated by benevolent rulers, by which all men might live prosperously…what could possibly be greater than that?”

 

Courfeyrac holds his tongue, leaving the first response to Combeferre, who has straightened his back to speak, his arms crossed as he beholds Monsieur Pontmercy with contempt.

 

“To be free.”

 

Monsieur Pontmercy whirls around to look at Combeferre in turn, who elects to walk away instead of engaging further, humming a foreign melody Courfeyrac has heard from his lips before, when the man is troubled, or lost, or simply does not want to be surrounded by silence. His hand is shaking as he passes Courfeyrac, and soon the man has disappeared into the night.

 

Enjolras’ eyes follow Combeferre’s back for a while, before he turns back to Monsieur Pontmercy.

 

“You see, Pontmercy, a great many of us already follow a code we chose on our own.”

 

Monsieur Pontmercy does not seem to have the presence of mind right now to formulate another rebuttal, occasionally glancing in the direction Combeferre took. Enjolras is about to renew an argument he must have already made a number of times tonight, if the exhaustion on his face is anything to go by, but he is interrupted by a young boy’s cry for attention as Gavroche comes running down to the beach.

“They’ve accepted them!”

 

Gavroche takes a second to catch his breath as he stops in front of Enjolras, then reiterates: “They’ve accepted the pardons, Teague and Bonnet, heard it just now from some fishermen! Ran their boats aground in North Carolina and sought refuge with Governor Eden!”

 

Enjolras’ hands clench by his side.

 

“We are truly abandoned then,” he grits out. The camp around them dissolves into angry muttering. Courfeyrac hears Teague’s name cursed, hears worried questions about what this might mean. Enjolras has gone down onto one knee next to Gavroche to say: “Run and tell Vane what you have learned, I bid you.”

 

Gavroche nods once and sets off into the night again as Enjolras rises to meet the crew’s questions straight on.

 

“What does this mean for us, Captain?”

 

“I propose we leave this place before they hang us!” Someone pipes up but is quickly hissed into silence.

 

“Captain?” Isaac asks, rising with the help of Joseph’s arm: “What would you have us do?”

 

Enjolras does not falter.

 

“What we have learned tonight is upsetting,” he begins. “I can imagine that a great many of you might find themselves questioning their resolve in the face of our changed circumstances. I will not lie to you: we are alone in this harbor, with the ally we have made. I cannot say if Teague and Bonnet will do as Hornigold has, whether we will have cause to fear retribution from them. I can tell you this: If any man wishes to leave, if any man wishes to go from the crew to make a life for himself, I will not shame him for it, he will suffer not for his choice. Any man is free to make this decision for himself, I guarantee that much.”

 

His eyes track Grantaire, who has taken a seat next to L’Aigle and put a comforting arm around his stiffened shoulders. Courfeyrac thinks of young Doctor Joly and feels a pang of sympathy for the Eagle. Grantaire, for his part, avoids Enjolras' eyes.

 

“But I have already made my choice!” Enjolras cries out, his voice rising. “I made it long ago! I will fight for what we have built here, I will not let the Royal Navy cow me into accepting defeat before the fighting has even begun. That is not who I am, that is not who I know my men to be. We fight to protect what is ours, what we cherish!”

 

Courfeyrac does not think Enjolras has ever managed to sway so many of the crew in so short a time. Bahorel is the first to respond, loudly rising from the sand to thump his fist on his chest. One by one the men stand up until none remain seated.

∞

**22 nd July, 1718 – A morning on the beach of Nassau**

Courfeyrac had expected arms around him as he woke up, for he distinctly remembers falling asleep on the same cot as Combeferre late last night. In recent weeks it has been known to happen, on occasion. They have worked tirelessly, side by side, correcting and editing memoirs, accounts of their lives, of Nassau. Euphrasie has, by now, established quite a collection under her bedroom's floorboards.

 

But Combeferre is awake already, sitting in the sand next to the cot, staring out across the water.

 

“Hey,” Courfeyrac says, placing a hand on Combeferre’s shoulder. "Why did you not wake me?"

 

“I had hoped you would not be awake for some time longer,” Combeferre sighs, rubbing his eyes.

 

“Why is that?”

 

“I would have wished to leave you in peace. But as that cannot be... look out at the water.”

 

Vane’s fleet floats on the waves, the two merchant ships with them, where the Captain moved them upon finding out that Teague and Bonnet folded.

 

(“Fuck them. Fuck England. Fuck everyone that isn’t us. We won’t hide any longer!”)

 

But on the beach, men are hurrying along, agitated, shouting orders and getting their affairs in order. Some of them follow Vane, others are their own men. The beach has been a shared camp ever since Vane's ships arrived.

 

“What has happened?”

 

“About an hour ago three ships appeared before Nassau, with more on the horizon.” Combeferre tells Courfeyrac, looking odd without his glasses so early in the morning. “It would appear Rogers has finally made it to our shores.”

 

“They've blocked the harbor. We are trapped,” Courfeyrac realizes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -Do I know when exactly Benjamin Hornigold received a Dispensation to hunt his old companions? No. It was actually in all likelihood after Rogers arrived. Does this glaring inaccuracy in my fic keep me up at night? Also no. 
> 
> -Did Anne Bonny live on board in men's clothing full-time? Did Mary Read? Possibly, and there is a case to be made as to what that might mean if it was not merely out of necessity, but history only records them as 'the most notorious female pirates' so that is what they are in my story. What we know is that while being put on trial for they evaded a hanging by 'pleading their bellies' and referred to themselves as women. 
> 
> -Napoleon didn't exist in 1718, obviously but Marius in this AU 100% admires the same expansionist patriotic bullshit Louis XIV pulled a few years earlier. Fight me. So his Dad instead fought in the War of the Spanish succession. Same difference. Or even the War of the League of Augsburg from 1688-1697, take your pick, there are definitely enough to go around. Also yes, his speech is changed. He still gets wrecked.
> 
> -If you want my Interpretation of why Marius' grandpa doesn't like Louis XIV and why they disagree on politics, it is because Louis did a stellar Job of establishing an absolute monarchy in France and getting the nobles to fucking depend on him and fight themselves for whatever scraps he threw them, as soon as he was allowed to rule in his own right. It worked to control them, mostly. He felt the need to do this because his father, Louis XIII faced A LOT of court-internal conflict over his reign, and one of the Kings before that (A Henry? Possibly Henry IV??) was actually assassinated. So, Old Gillenormand is a Lover of the OLD OLD Regime, whereas Marius likes the Old Regime (Louis XIV), which was replaced somewhat after his death in 1715, for a few reasons. 1) Because he built the whole Sun King Cult-Thing around himself and his awesome person, not around the royal lineage, and 2) because his sons etc all died before he did (fucker ruled for 72 years), and his death left a three year old or so on the throne. It just wasn't the same. Also, crushing debts. 
> 
> -Blackbeard did accept a pardon from North Carolina's governor Charles Eden. Some sources suggest he and Bonnet intentionally let their ships run aground in Beaufort inlet, killing several of their men, so that they might receive larger shares of the loot.  
> They were back to piracy after just four weeks though. That piece of news, hoever, has not reached Nassau yet.
> 
> -Governor Rogers did blockade Nassau. It was a very popular tactic back in the day.


	7. On Utilizing Fire in Aiding Escape and Proper Recovery Time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay listen. i tried to get a battle plan for the Vane vs. Rogers Showdown-- but like... 18th century sources are even more vague than some of the stuff i came up with.  
> i legit found like three sources just saying 'yep so that happened' which was just very rude and inconsiderate. they could have known that three hundred and 1 years in the future i would be writing about it and would want an obscene amount of Detail...
> 
> anyway, enjoy. :)

 

**22 nd July, 1718 – The beach of Nassau**

By the time Courfeyrac has pulled on his boots and hobbled over to where Enjolras is shouting orders, his foot is already burning up again and his head feels a little dizzy. Most mornings it is not so terrible; usually the pain only sets in after he has exhausted himself to some extent. He should not have gotten up so quickly. Combeferre is following behind him, entirely quiet. His calm demeanor bears misleading connotations of being unconcerned, but Courfeyrac sees it in his eyes. There is a very real fear in them, of being caught, of being forced back into a life he once knew. He does not think he could bear to see Combeferre in shackles once more, with an iron collar about his neck.

 

(He remembers that Bahorel chiseled the old one off Combeferre, once the man finally joined them on deck. It took Combeferre three days to come out from the cabin Enjolras graciously offered him use of. Feuilly fashioned grape shot out of it. Combeferre’s face as he fired it – Feuilly had insisted on showing him how to operate cannons – had been something to behold. It had seemed freeing to Courfeyrac, and he had not even been the one to light the fuse.)

 

No, such a sight could not be borne.

 

Vane is standing with Enjolras, snapping at his debauched looking quartermaster to get on with whatever was ordered of him. Rackham sports only a waistcoat, no shirt – that must have hurriedly been thrown onto Miss Bonny’s figure when news hit of the blockade. Altogether he makes a sorry picture. Half of his mustache tilts upwards, the other down.

 

“There you are,” Enjolras exhales loudly when he spots Courfeyrac coming closer. “What is wrong with your leg?”

 

“Nothing - tingling a little from having been slept on, that is all,” Courfeyrac dismisses, straightening and forcing himself to put a bit more weight on both sides, despite the pain that travels up his leg in quick pulses. “Where are we on a plan?”

 

“The men are hungover and slower, though determined to do what is asked of them,” Enjolras explains, “Unfortunately our slight lethargy has given Rogers all the time he needs to fully blockade us. There are some six ships floating before Nassau.”

 

“I’ve told you what I mean to do,” Vane protests, his eyes hard and determined.

 

“The wind is not on your side, I have told _you_ ,” Enjolras retorts, gesturing out at the water where sails are only barely moved by the light morning breeze.

 

“Yet I have not heard a better plan from you, Captain,” Vane crosses his arms. His chin lifts proudly, daring Enjolras to further oppose him. He and Enjolras are of a similar height, though Vane is much broader across the shoulders, and so they stay chest to chest, locked in a debate that two men fighting on the same side ought not to be having. Not when time is of the essence.

 

“Captain Vane, what would you have us do?” Courfeyrac asks. Enjolras glares at him, but he cannot pacify him now. “He is right, Enjolras – I have heard no plan from your lips, and truthfully I have nothing to offer you either. I would hear what you have to say.”

 

Behind Vane, a man kneels on the sand, flanked by two of Vane’s men. Courfeyrac notes this when Vane points it out to him. “That over there is the young Captain Yeats, whom we have just found sleeping soundly in his own piss. His vessel is the _Katherine_ , that pretty little sloop floating nearby. My men are outfitting her with some more cannons as we speak.”

 

“And these are guns taken from the _Ranger_?”

 

Courfeyrac senses where this plan is headed. Charles Vane nods, and the tic in his jaw as much as confirms how reluctant he is to go through with it. He looks out into the bay, where men are hurrying on deck and emptying barrels onto the wooden planks.

 

It adds further understanding to Courfeyrac’s estimate of how desperate they are.

 

Such a sacrifice is not made lightly, not of a flagship. To do it to an old vessel, beyond repair? That is one thing. What Vane is proposing is something rather unthinkable.

 

“You mean to make a _fireship_ of her? That is your grand ambitious plan?”

 

“The _Katherine_ is smaller and faster, the _Abaissés_ can follow her easily. She’s a beautiful ship, truly. Fast but well-outfitted, not weighed down too much by her build – a good choice, I concede. I admit when I picked the _Ranger_ it was rather more for purposes of intimidation than practicality, but her great size will help us now, surely.”

 

“If the _Ranger_ manages to hit one of their ships at all,” Enjolras throws in – an important point to be made. “Which, as you know, is never guaranteed, much less so in our circumstances – we might lose the strongest ship at our disposal! What sense is there in that?”

 

“It could be done,” Courfeyrac contemplates the matter, stacking up the odds. “As it stands our only other option is retreating inland if we do not wish to be bombarded where we stand, where Rogers need only dispatch small groups of men that will encircle the island and close in on us until we face death on all sides. We would find ourselves in shallow graves within a week.”

 

“As I have said,” Vane agrees, tilting his head at Enjolras. “You swore you meant to fight for Nassau. Would you back out now that the time has come? Until today you had given me an impression of considerable bravery.”

 

“It is not cowardice to want to see such a thing done as effectively as possible,” Courfeyrac mediates.

 

“I had expected some further time to prepare – his arrival is rather sudden,” Enjolras huffs, “We had plans for the fort, as you recall. I concede that they cannot be executed now, but I much preferred them.”

 

But already Courfeyrac can see Enjolras’ posture changing, his muscles tightening. He is beginning to prepare for a battle. At last he seems to have accepted that what Vane is proposing is their best chance.

 

“Get your men on your ship,” Vane suggests, “I’ll signal when we’re ready to set the Ranger ablaze.”

 

He is already beginning to turn away when Enjolras calls out to him.

 

“I appreciate your sacrifice, Captain. I know how much your ship means to you.”

 

“May she mean something even greater for all of us, Captain,” Vane shrugs, shaking Enjolras’ hand firmly. The two men guarding Vane’s prisoner yank him upright. Courfeyrac pities the poor fellow, but unfortunately his ship _is_ their only way of escape. Once Vane enters a new one, he will likely give it back to him. More than anyone he understands a captain’s attachment to his vessel. But no battle has ever been fought without collateral damage, as unpleasant as human collateral always is.

 

Enjolras watches Vane stride down the beach. Between his brows a single, vertical line has appeared, speaking of a deeply troubled mind.

 

“Courfeyrac…”

 

His tone of voice is hesitant, which already leaves Courfeyrac uneasy. Enjolras and hesitation rarely keep company.

 

“If I should be killed – or if they should capture us – will you promise to do something for me?”

 

Courfeyrac is quiet, so the man continues. He does not want Enjolras to say it. He does not want Enjolras to speak of his death. Whenever Courfeyrac brought up his own, Enjolras had stopped him before he ever finished his first sentence on the matter. But this is no jest, Courfeyrac realizes this. He knows well that it costs Enjolras a great deal to address it, so he lets him go on uninterrupted.

 

“Do not let them take my body. Do not let them get close to it, I beg of you. I would rather drown a hundred times than have them misjudge me when I can no longer dispute it. I would not be at their mercy, no matter in which state.”

 

“Enj…” Courfeyrac’s heart hurts. Enjolras has never voiced his wishes so bluntly before today, and while Courfeyrac would have guessed them to be thus, to hear him say it makes him fear that Enjolras has already quite resigned himself to meet his end today. They are all wary, but there is something within Courfeyrac that leaves him hoping, that makes him think that perhaps what Vane suggested can be done. There is a large part of him that staunchly refuses to consider his own death today. Maybe it is naïve, maybe his hope is entirely misplaced, but he must carry it within him to get through what awaits him on the water. He must make himself believe that he will live - and if he cannot manage that, he must make himself believe that whether he lives or dies today does not matter. He prefers the first option.

 

“Promise me this, Courfeyrac, please. I do not think I can face their fleet if I do not have your word on this matter.”

 

Courfeyrac puts a hand on his shoulder, though he does not think it offers much comfort at the moment.

 

“Even if it should be my last act I promise you I will do my utmost to guard what you would keep guarded.”

 

Enjolras’ eyes close, his breathing evens out again, regains steadiness.

 

“Thank you,” he whispers, ready.

 

∞

For what feels as close to an eternity as he has ever experienced he watches L’Aigle lay and secure the ropes on deck as they wait for Vane to get the ship ready, tying and strengthening knots where necessary, checking on the cannons, reinforcing some of Isaac’s work.

 

Next to him, Combeferre watches the proceedings on board the soon to be abandoned Ranger with interest.

 

“Do you suppose Vane has gone completely mad, or does this plan have some merit?”

 

“His men are not too happy with the decision. That much is true; and no matter the success of this plan, I do not think his popularity will improve for it. Nor do I truly think we will break out of here without substantial losses, but there is always hope. The problem is that I see no other fucking option to get us out of here, and we cannot defend Nassau if we do not have the fort. And the fort… well, the fort is in fucking disrepair because of that fucking Hornigold and his betrayal.”

 

“Another month would have given us time to repair enough that we might have had a chance holding them off,” Combeferre agrees. They had already gotten started, after all. But such repairs take time, and while many of their men have become quite adept at ship maintenance, a fort of brick and mortar is quite different to understand.

 

(“We rendezvous on Green Cay Island,” Vane’s quartermaster had informed Enjolras only minutes ago. Bahorel had been confident that he would find it, and so no objection was voiced.)

 

“Yes, well…” Courfeyrac shrugs. He does not know what Combeferre means for him to say. More time would have gone a long way in easing their plight. But now that they have no additional time, why should they reflect on their misfortunes? Surely that ought to wait until their fate has set fully on either the course of life or death? Surely such contemplations of what might have been are best left for the aftermath?

 

And yet, he must ask, because the thought will not leave him be: “Are you alright?”

 

A quick glance at Combeferre shows the man as outwardly calm as ever, but his eyes have little about them that is familiar right now.

 

“Does it surprise you that I am afraid?” Combeferre wonders. “I do not much wish to die yet, I confess. There are a few things I should have liked to do in my life before it ended, hence my reflections on time and the shortage of it we face.”

 

“But you will have a chance to do all you wish,” Courfeyrac tells him, hoping his voice conveys more confidence than he feels. In truth he has no way of knowing, none of them do. But they must hope – they must always continue to hope.

 

“So far your optimism has never been misplaced, Courfeyrac. Let it not be so today either.”

 

∞

The signal comes just after noon, when four men board the _Ranger_ and get her on the way. By now the wind has even picked up a little, and Courfeyrac hopes dearly for that to be a sign of divine approval. Occasionally you must look for your own omens in this life.

 

“Have our guns made ready, Feuilly,” Enjolras instructs. “Bahorel – get us under way!”

 

“About three leagues ahead of us now, by my estimate,” L’Aigle announces. “Captain, do we have a plan to evade the burning ships, should all of the blockade catch fire?”

 

“Certainly. I expect that is what the cannons will prove useful for, L’Aigle,” Enjolras returns the shout halfway across the deck. Several men chuckle, he hears a cheer from the mast. It is rare to hear Enjolras joke, and Courfeyrac believes that is precisely why the men treasure the few occasions on which it has happened.

 

“They’re lighting her up! She looks to be making course against the wind.”

 

Enjolras has a quick look for himself, then issues further instructions: “Steer us towards the center of the blockade. They mean for the wind to carry the fire clean across the row.”

 

“If that is the case,” Combeferre notes quietly, for Courfeyrac’s ears only, “It leaves us but a little window to sail past if we should wish to avoid a fiery death.”

 

The sound of gunfire prevents Courfeyrac from answering as the impact of their load resonates across the bay. A second volley hits them, sending a spray of splinters across the deck.

 

“L’Aigle, what do you see?” Enjolras stands at the wheel with Bahorel, his voice steady and carrying well. There is a deeper calmness to him than Courfeyrac usually sees that speaks of the same resignation he suspected on the beach. No, today cannot be Enjolras’ end. Not if Courfeyrac may prevent it.

 

“They’re firing on the _Ranger_!”

 

“At this rate they’re bound to sink her before she reaches them,” Feuilly shouts. “Captain, do we return fire?”

 

“We can’t!” Bahorel says, answering for Enjolras, “If we turn to expose our side to the fleet we have no hope of sailing past them in this weather! There’s a storm brewing on the horizon that’ll leave us tipped and strand-”

 

Another salve of cannon balls hits their side, drowning out the rest of Bahorel’s point. Courfeyrac hears a terrifying creak from below deck, followed by a swift pop, a gush. Something has given in.

 

“We need someone below deck!” Enjolras has noticed the problem as well. That dreaded sound is familiar to all of them.

 

“I need someone to go with me,” Courfeyrac says, volunteering for the task. To his great surprise, Grantaire appears by his side and begins climbing into the hold of the ship. Enjolras does not stop them, but he looks rather as though there are things he would wish to say. He says nothing, in the end.  

 

“Damage is only starboard,” Grantaire quickly notes, “None of the shots have gone through clean, but it’s still a worrisome leak.”

 

“That barrel over there in the corner,” Courfeyrac instructs, “Bring it here, it is what we will have to use to patch up the damage.”

 

They are up to their ankles in water already, and outside the roaring thunder of cannon fire beats an steady drum. Courfeyrac feels each salve in this bones; it shakes him. One blast throws Grantaire’s back against his chest, but the man regains his footing quickly and continues plastering the waxy fabric over any holes he can find, after which Courfeyrac stuffs blocks of chipped wood into the prepared swale. His feet feel heavy and his head even more so as the ship around them rocks and tilts on the water.

 

He forces himself to keep going even after his hands are scraped open by splinters, buried deep and only driven deeper by continued activity. Next to him Grantaire’s breathing grows labored, but the man neither stops nor complains, his face grim despite heavy sweat on his brow.

 

“They’re breaking formation! Captain! They’re breaking – the blockade has made a door for us to go through!”

 

“How polite,” Enjolras’ voice sounds a little breathless now.

 

Grantaire pauses briefly to huff out a smile that Courfeyrac returns, almost delirious as they are caught in the loop of pasting and stuffing.

 

“Sail us through, Bahorel!”

 

“I had a mind to.”

 

A new hole tears through half their efforts. Through a face full of saltwater that burns his eyes and drips pure agony into his open wounds he keeps working. Every breath feels ragged now, every muscle in his arms protests further strain. Courfeyrac pushes past the pain, zeroes in on the wood and water in front of him. Nothing but the wall that must be patched can exist for him now, only that.

 

“A little more,” Grantaire’s voice is encouraging.

 

Courfeyrac hardly hears him. Is Grantaire still beside him or has he moved elsewhere? His voice seems oddly distanced, as though he is speaking to him from some faraway shore. The noise on deck grows steadily louder but only registers as the same dull thud. It all blends into a single noise, converging and increasing in volume until it is unbearable. Through the holes in their ship Courfeyrac stares down the barrels of twenty-five cannons, lined up and ready to fire. He grabs where he believes Grantaire’s sleeve to be, where the man is still plastering wax onto linen, tugging and rasping out: “Up…Grantaire, we need to… on deck. Now, or they shall blow the both of us to pieces.”

 

“She’s still leaky,” Grantaire protests, but allows Courfeyrac to tug him along the thigh-high water that has flooded the compartment. They must be sitting low on the water by now. Their work is entirely undone with a concentrated shot. Likely the ship’s weakness was easily perceived from the outside and targeted intentionally.

 

“We will be dead before we finish if we stay…up…now!”

 

Grantaire has a hand fisted into the back of his waistcoat, holding him upright when a new blast threatens to topple him. He sees grapeshot perforate where they stood only moments before and feels tired.

 

“Keep her steady a while longer, my friends!” Bahorel is crowing up on deck. “We’re almost through the worst of it.”

 

“Aim for her sails!” Feuilly orders, “We do not want them able to pursue us! Fire!”

 

Sunlight is blinding, noise is deafening and the heat is unbearable when they reach the deck. He fears he may be leaning a little on Grantaire. “Need to get to Enj…”

 

“R, we need someone else in the rigging _now_!” L’Aigle’s voice comes from somewhere – where is it coming from?

 

“Go,” Courfeyrac confirms the order for Grantaire, who still hesitates to take his arm out from under his shoulder. “Go, in heaven’s name, before we are all dead for having waited!”

 

His vision is blurry but Enjolras is distinguishable even so at his position by Bahorel. Grantaire guides his hands to one of the ropes tied, and he slumps against it for a second. He will gather his breath for but a second. Surely no one will begrudge him that. Blinking does little to bring back clarity, so he stumbles towards where he knows Enjolras to be. He must press onwards!

 

A shout of warning reaches him. He hears his name, feels his foot nudge a heavy rope – a split-second later a blast leaves him stumbling. A vise tightens around his foot, the effect quick and clean. Pain blinds him entirely, darkness overtakes him.

∞

 

**23 rd July, 1718 – A day’s journey from Nassau**

 

His first thought is that he must have died. Surely this parched feeling of decay in his mouth is indicative of that? Surely this is what death is like?

 

The second thought that comes to him is a relief. Everything hurts, and if he were truly dead he does not think pain would mean much to him. Something must have decided to preserve his life after all – fate, chance, perhaps a bit of both? Whatever it was, it did not spare him any pain, for there is plenty of that. Maybe it is another way of being cruel. If there is some higher power it must occasionally grow tired of leading men down the same path again and again. Perhaps this is an experiment into a new direction, to see how much might be done to a man before that inevitable end.

 

Breathing is a more laborious task than he remembers, and he can manage shallow breaths well enough. Halfway through a complete breath pain inevitably makes him curl in on himself.

 

Alive, then – but not well, from what he can tell.

 

Courfeyrac opens his eyes, though he is tempted to keep them closed for the rest of his life. Initially he sees nothing, and fears that his eyesight may have been taken from him as well. But there is a candle burning to his right, and next to that candle there sits Combeferre.

 

“…Ferre?”

 

Combeferre’s eyes open. Courfeyrac has startled him; he did not mean to do that, the man looks exhausted enough as it is.

 

“You stupid, reckless man,” Combeferre scolds, though his voice breaks halfway through, destroying the appearance of genuine anger. No, Courfeyrac thinks to see predominantly relief. “I could wring your neck, do you know that?”

 

“Please do not,” Courfeyrac croaks. “I do not think I could take it right now, but some other time when I am recovered perhaps?”

 

“You would surely deserve it,” Combeferre hiccups as he lets out a brittle laugh, taking off his glasses to clean them with his shirt. “You told me your foot felt fine, that there was no pain, and I simply believed you. Trust that I will not make that mistake again.”

 

“It does not feel fine now,” Courfeyrac admits. “Have you anything to drink? My throat feels dry as the desert.”

Combeferre’s hand is warm as it slides under his neck, lifting his head to a proffered bottle. Rum, Courfeyrac notes. It burns the dryness away. Water would be preferred, but if they had any at hand Courfeyrac is certain he would have been offered that instead, so he does not ask.

 

“Your foot is broken, Courfeyrac,” Combeferre informs him. Immediately, Courfeyrac’s eyes flick downwards. There is no bone visible, no external injury save the deep impression left by a ligature, small mercy, and around that only a shiny red clump. The swelling must have tripled since he forced himself into his boots on the beach of Nassau.

 

“Will I be able to keep it, do you think? I should hate to undergo amputation, even in your capable hands.”

 

“I cannot say. If you take care not to stress it you may be lucky. Though it likely would not have broken on deck if you had allowed your foot the rest I prescribed. I do not understand, Courfeyrac. You have always shared my anger when men do not take care to follow the instructions I give them, have told me that they were unreasonable, but now you have willfully ignored mine, and you have misled me to think you did as I ordered!”

 

“Forgive me.”

 

Combeferre sighs.

 

“Please,” Courfeyrac tries to sit upright, only to have Combeferre’s broad hand upon his chest, firmly urging him to remain as he is. “I could not…I could not afford to appear weakened, the last weeks. I…I had to be strong for the crew. I was needed.”

 

“What do you imagine you will be able to do for the crew from your grave? It is a wonder you are only slightly feverish!”

 

Courfeyrac shuts his eyes. He cannot face the anguish in Combeferre’s eyes, cannot face what he has done to him. Causing him pain was never his intention. Quite the opposite, truly. If he could, he would make sure Combeferre never had cause to despair.

 

“I am truly very sorry. Please, tell me what happened.”

 

“Your foot got caught in a rope. It pulled you halfway across the deck as the cannons hit, but I suppose you had already been rendered unconscious by the impact of your head upon the deck.”

 

“And the men?”

 

“One dead,” Combeferre sighs. “They shot young Charles out of the nets. We have noticed no pursuers. We do not know whether the _Katherine_ was able to follow us past the blockade.”

 

“How is…the hold? Are we still flooded?”

 

“Enjolras had us counterflood portside last night. Our progress is now slow but regular. Bahorel is concerned. We sit rather low on the waves and the storm we noticed last night only draws closer. In a while we will be at the heart of it.”

 

“Can we not sail past it?” Courfeyrac wonders, but Combeferre shakes his head, seemingly regretting it.

  

“I saw Hornigold on one of the ships, next to the man I presumed to be Woodes Rogers. And Hornigold was clever enough to stuff their cannons with chains. They took half the wheel off. It is a cheap tactic, but undoubtedly effective.”

 

Courfeyrac needs a few breaths to process that.

 

“So we are drifting into a storm and left entirely to its whims.”

 

“Regrettably so, yes,” Combeferre confirms. “We are not far from land. Enjolras is hoping we will find ourselves beached. I concur that it is the only hope we have right now. Some of the men are praying for a swift end already, and Grantaire can be heard mocking them under his breath. He has not come down from the rigging since L’Aigle sent him up there again five bells ago.”

 

“Will you pray?” Courfeyrac wonders. Combeferre looks at him thoughtfully. At last he shakes his head.

 

“In my life, no prayer I have made has ever been answered. I have been taught many, I have been told the faith of your people would lead me to salvation, but it has always seemed to me that to pray meant to reveal to a cruel authority what I feared I might lose. Your god’s benevolence was never understood to extend to me. I should not like to risk having more taken from me, not when we are already so vulnerable.”

 

“Accepting your own suffering in exchange for the prospect of paradise…” Courfeyrac smiles weakly, “I do not think I must tell you that I am no friend of such rhetoric. There is no guarantee of it. I prefer to take my chances with the afterlife and make the most of what I may experience on this earth. In truth...I have spoken to God so rarely that I do not think he would know who I was."

 

“Then it seems neither of us will pray.”

 

“No, indeed we will not. But it is a powerful thing, is it not? How many are devoted, how many derive comfort from ideas written down long before our time?”

 

“You ought to rest – such exciting discussions will only rile you up. Stress does little to speed up your recovery.”

 

“I will rest if you will rest with me,” Courfeyrac stretches his hand out toward Combeferre, invitation and offer alike. Combeferre eyes the cot warily.

 

“We will not fit side by side.”

 

“Fret not, dear friend,” Courfeyrac smiles up at him, “I am quite adept at making room for you in all aspects of my life.”

 

It takes some effort and a few chiding words about not moving and disturbing his foot, but at last he is within Combeferre’s arms, warmed and held securely.

“All aspects?”

“Quite,” Courfeyrac yawns, “Most of this space, I must admit though, you have taken up in my heart.”

He feels Combeferre’s lips on his brow in answer. Sleep comes easy then.

∞

**24 th July, 1718 – Early in the morning, as a storm rages**

Courfeyrac is woken up by sharp wind whistling through the broken cabin window. The bed is empty of Combeferre, and he is left in near total darkness. Outside the window, through a great many storm clouds, he thinks he can make out a few rays of light on the horizon.

But the ship creaks and groans like a dying man, and as Courfeyrac stands up – steadying himself on the wall of the cabin – he feels rather like a man on death’s door himself.

Where has everyone gone? Either they cannot be heard over the wind, or else…Courfeyrac should not like to imagine that he was left alone. They would not leave him, not willingly.

And he certainly cannot leave them. Where have they gone? Where is Enjolras? Where is Combeferre? Combeferre – has he imagined what transpired between them? Were the lips he felt on his skin the product of a feverish dream, a mere hallucination? He must find out.

“What are you doing up?” Enjolras appears to shout at him when he throws his entire weight behind the process of opening the cabin door. In the storm his hair has come undone, whipping across his face in wet strands, sticking to his forehead and wrapping itself around his neck. “You are supposed to be resting. You will be swept overboard out here in your state!”

“How can I rest in such circumstances?” Courfeyrac screams to be heard. “How can I rest while you are out here in danger?” A wave breaks over the ship, throwing them side to side. He only barely manages to keep upright, his fingernails digging into rope that cuts into his skin, further irritating flesh already torn. He has not had much chance to heal.

“Go back inside, Courfeyrac!” Enjolras has a hand on his neck, his eyes pleading with him. He cannot move.

“To the right, Feuilly, damn you! To the right! This one is too large!”

“She’ll break right over us!”

“Bahorel, get down! Get ahold of something!”

“Courfeyrac, please!” Enjolras shouts, trying to push him back inside. But Courfeyrac cannot move, it is as though all of his energy leaves him at once. Behind Enjolras, a wave rises, as large as their railing and towering above it still.

“Goodbye, my friend,” Courfeyrac breathes the words out as he pulls Enjolras' face down to connect their foreheads, one last time. Enjolras’ hand tightens on his neck, and the other arm tightens around his waist.

“No! No, Courfeyrac, listen to me, go back inside! I'll go with you, _please_! Courfeyrac, move!”

They try to hold onto one another, but the wave breaks above them, crashing and tearing them violently apart. Courfeyrac’s back hits something wooden, then for a second he falls freely. The impact on water is harsh and painful, filling his lungs once more with salt. He coughs and sees stars from the effort. Above him, the ship is loud with screams, confused and frantic now.

“Man overboard!”

His arms are weak, his palms burn – though that is beginning to subside now.

On the horizon Courfeyrac can make out a red sun.

“Goodbye,” he whispers at the ship.

His arms will not allow him to keep above water much longer, and already he feels a wave at his back.

But that is alright.

He has done what he can, he must prepare for something else now.

“Goodbye,” he repeats one last time and feels almost at peace.

∞

**25 th July, 1718 – Uknown beach**

Courfeyrac is alone when he wakes up to the sun burning his face. His lungs are filled with water that he exhausts himself coughing up, and still every breath is ragged and tiresome.

He is alone.

Combeferre is not sitting by his side, there is no candle lit to reassure him that someone was here once. There is only sand, and the unforgiving sky. It takes more effort than he cares to admit to sit upright.

Oh.

He is not alone.

Some feet away, where the now tranquil waves are lapping at the sand, sits a broad-shouldered figure, hunched over. Incredible, how quickly any trace of a storm disappears, Courfeyrac muses. The vast ocean ahead seems entirely still, peaceful. Or perhaps it is just that no storms rage in death.

The sight of the figure’s back is enough to identify Grantaire. Courfeyrac attempts to get his attention, but it is no use. His voice will not obey him. He cannot get up.

Perhaps he is imagining Grantaire? Perhaps he no longer needs a voice where he has gone?

Gritting his teeth, Courfeyrac makes his hands into fists so that he will not grind his torn up palms into the sand, and heaves himself towards where Grantaire is sitting. Every movement is accompanied by a hiss, a sharp gasp, a stifled cry. He must reach Grantaire. Will the man disappear? Will he, with every inch Courfeyrac gains on him, drift farther out of reach? May he even touch him? Is such a thing possible?

Something must at last be loud enough, for Grantaire scrambles upright and turns around, blade in his hand. His shoulders slump when he realizes it is only Courfeyrac.

“You are awake at last.”

“Where are the others?” Courfeyrac grits out, manages to speak through a mouth tasting of blood and sand.

“They’re gone, Courfeyrac.” Grantaire’s face falls, his composure shattering into a thousand little pieces as he sobs: “We are alone.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, lets do this. *yeats historical context at you*  
> -Captain Yeats, of the Katherine, whose ship Charles Vane commandeered in this Story, did exist. In this one I have made him just a merchant, in reality he was also a pirate, but one of the few that was eventually pardoned and actually survived for longer than a year or two afterwards. 
> 
> -Fireships were a very common tactic in ye olde days when wooden ships were A Thing, used by the outnumbered English fleet against the Spanish Armada, for example, and, historically, by Charles Vane to escape Nassau. You could also turn a fireship into a Hellburner (by adding loads of gunpowder, because explosions...). It was a pretty solid tactic because there was almost nothing on a ship that wouldn't burn. Usually you left a Skeleton Crew on board that would then escape by rowboat. 
> 
> -When Combeferre talks about being introduced to Christianity he is recounting a very Common Thing in the history of the US, wherein some of the ideas taught by Christianity (a.k.a. that life is a means to get to paradise by way of sacrifice etc) were used to try and make slaves accept their position in life. At least, according to many historians, that was the intention behind it, which is why adoption of the Christian religion was encouraged by slaveowners. Kind of backfired though. Especially the Moses-story had a very very profound impact on many slaves, and straight across the centuries you had a pretty solid quota of runaway slaves and slave rebellions.
> 
> \- "I have spoken to God so rarely that I do not think he would know who I was." is one of my favorite quotes said by someone on the eve of their execution, even if it isn't historically accurate, and Courfeyrac is not knowingly quoting it.


	8. On Overcoming Loneliness and Finding Hope Where There Seems to be None

**25 th July 1718 – Unknown beach**

Grantaire’s words filter into his understanding slowly, as though through a haze – surely, _surely_ that cannot be right? They cannot be--

“Alone?”

Grantaire’s lower lip quivers. The breath he draws in is ragged – it sounds wet, despairing. But no second sob follows the initial one he could not control. Grantaire seems to wrestle with himself for a beat. That he manages after so little time to speak with a measure of control is astounding in itself.

 

“As alone as one can be on an unfamiliar island,” he amends, settling onto the sand next to Courfeyrac. He does not look to be injured, but there is a heavier set to his shoulders now, an invisible burden he seems to carry. Another day, Courfeyrac would ask to share it. Today he feels wholly incapable of shouldering even his own. But he cannot put it down either – where would it go? It cannot spread out on the sand, cannot flow back into the sea, cannot be carried off by the winds. His burden is his own, as Grantaire’s is Grantaire’s, today.

(“You comport yourself as friend to everyone. It is clear as day to me that you have regard for every man on your crew,” Combeferre had told him once, when he had been on board with them for only a few months, “Yet I wonder, Monsieur, who serves to ease your mind, at the end of a day spent offering comfort to anyone who might need it.”

Courfeyrac had laughed then, had felt a light breeze on his face and delighted in it.

“I have friends in every port, have you not been told?”

“Friends.” Combeferre had raised his eyebrows, “That is certainly one word to call them, and a good deal more polite one than most men employ.”)

He does not know how he washed up on the beach. In his last moments of consciousness he had closed his eyes as he sank below the water, had hoped that his body would not even notice the lack of air, that he would lose consciousness before he lost his life. The first step of that process happened. Why did the second not follow? He was rather certain it would.

Courfeyrac does not know what to say to the strange man that came into their lives some months ago now, but Grantaire seems content to hold his tongue. Silently they sit side by side, staring out at the waves. What has happened to their ship, he wonders; has Enjolras sailed her through the storm or did it conquer him and the rest of the crew shortly after Courfeyrac went overboard?

 

Will they, in the next few days, find blotched, watery corpses washed up on shore, some clutching pieces of wood or rope, their only company at death’s door, desperately grasped and despaired over when they offered none of the safety hoped for? Courfeyrac imagines seeing Enjolras’ still face, his eyes shot through with blood and his lips cracked, mouth open in a silent scream. In his imagination Enjolras’ face is ghastly pale, every last bit of color has left him, his skin has turned waxy, his cheeks sunken in.

Could he then manage to push his old friend back into the waves?

Would he not clutch to him just as desperately, refusing to let go until his own end came?

(Memories from years ago invade his mind unbidden. He remembers his father’s aide-de-camp, a young fellow named Lasalle, red of hair but unfailingly immaculately powdered at all times, tall and slim, taking him along on horseback to fulfill courier duties. That day riding beneath the sun was an unbearably hot one in July, quite like it is now, and in his fine clothes Courfeyrac had worked up a sweat that made every bit of his skin itch, quite like he has now. They had ridden into a small town they were passing through. Courfeyrac had looked at boys as young as he cowering behind their mothers’ skirts, hiding inside, large dark eyes peering out through window slits. They had been a pathetic sight, emaciated and hollow-eyed, their little stomachs protruding while their limbs more closely resembled twigs, prone to snap at the slightest manipulation.

“The Spanish army is likely to pass through here soon,” Lasalle had explained, when Courfeyrac had asked him why the Spaniards seemed so fearful of them. “Likely they fear that if they should offer us help or kindness now, they will be punished for doing so once the village changes hands.”

 Whenever he reflects on that day, Courfeyrac appreciates the honesty of the man.

He had gone on to ask: “Then why do we not make them our friends and protect the village from the Spaniards? Would that not win us their hearts as well as their support?”

“Would that we could, petit Chevalier,” Lasalle had sighed, “But that is not what we are here to do. We each have our orders, things that we must do. Monsieur le Roi does not ask us to agree with his orders, we need only execute them.”

A few minutes later Courfeyrac had watched from horseback as two other riders brought a shrouded corpse, swiftly to be revealed as a victim of the dreaded pox. The pus-drenched fabric had swiftly been dumped into the river, but they had deliberated over the deceased – a young infantryman of light brown hair. Courfeyrac had still seen blood leaking from his eyes. It had clumped and stained the hair at his temples.

 

“You’ll want to poke him full of holes before you toss him in the river – it’ll make him sink all the quicker, the locals won’t be able to pull him out before he’s done infecting the stream,” One of the unknown riders had advised Lasalle. “They might not even notice for a few days, if we’re really lucky.”

“I thank you, gentlemen,” Lasalle had nodded at them. The men had tipped their hats at him and swiftly gotten back onto their horses. It had seemed to Courfeyrac then that they were afraid of the corpse as well. The pox had already taken many a man in their camp that summer, so that sentiment had been understandable. Even in his father’s lavish tent he had heard the groans of the dying, the smell of the dead, of unbearable ill and flesh charred incompletely by fire, left to rot and fester.

Once the two men disappeared again, Courfeyrac had heard Lasalle sigh about how dreadful the whole business of war was. Nonetheless, the body had gone into the river, and their army had moved on to the next village the very next day.)

Could he do that, should Enjolras’ body wash up here? Could he take a knife to his stomach to ensure he would sink rather than float? He suspects Grantaire would not let him, would wish for the man to have a proper burial. He does not know Enjolras’ wishes, Courfeyrac supposes, unusual as they may seem to the common man. And on an island that no one but them would soon walk on, would Enjolras, looking upon him from high above, begrudge him the small comfort that seeing his closest friend buried with dignity would provide? Or would he view the sand as an enemy not unlike the Royal Navy, one he would not wish to keep him? Would only a grave in the sea, where his body may be parceled off to feed a myriad species, serve him well enough?

He ought not to imagine it. Truthfully, he ought to retain hope that they might have sailed through the storm. Yes, he must remove such thoughts from his mind; must be beyond them now.

 

When the sun begins to set Grantaire asks: “Should we see about making a fire? Tonight will be cold, I believe.”

 

“You do not know if you are truly alone on this island, and if you are not, you cannot know if you would be perceived as a threat once disocevered. If you wish to live, it would not be wise for you to alert someone to your presence until you consider yourself able to fight off whatever comes out of the forest to confront you.”

 

Grantaire barks out a short laugh.

 

“If there truly is intelligent life on this island it need only wander off a bit more for a piss and will stumble upon us. I don’t know if you noticed this, Mister Quartermaster, but it’s not a very big one.”

 

“A point well made,” Courfeyrac considers. “If you wish to ensure you do not freeze I cannot stop you.”

 

For a long while Grantaire looks to be on the brink of speaking. But in the end he thinks better of it, evidently, and gets up to walk the short distance to the beginnings of the island’s forest, where sunlight has dried driftwood and branches all throughout the day. Too soon, the man returns, carrying some wood but looking altogether put out.

 

“It is dry, but I do not think quite dry enough to be conducive to igniting a flame.”

 

“Unfortunate, but so be it,” Courfeyrac shrugs. After a storm, such a thing is almost to be expected. Perhaps Grantaire will be warmed by his body. It certainly feels warm enough. Again Grantaire looks quite intent on saying something, but once more holds his tongue as they resume sitting in silence.

 

If the Abaissés weathered the storm – where is she now? Has she found the Katherine? Have they reached Green Turtle Cay? He hopes they have, and he hopes they have not. It is a selfish thought, unwelcome, the dichotomy of his thoughts. 

Are they looking for Courfeyrac? Are they looking for Grantaire? Both notions seem utterly ridiculous. Men that go overboard in a storm are seldom recovered, rather they are declared lost the second their heads bob underwater, never to be seen again. Truthfully, that is what Courfeyrac had accepted as his own fate, and now –

A nudge to his right draws him from his spiraling thoughts. He registers that Grantaire is offering him something and takes it in hand automatically, his torn skin complaining only a little. Only once the liquor has burned half his throat does he recognize it as rum.

“You would do well not to drink too much of that,” Courfeyrac cautions, “You will find yourself quite parched. Your body will not thank you for it.”

 

“Yours will not either,” Grantaire shrugs before he has a rather large mouthful of his flask. “I expect that the storm will have left a pool or two on the island, and I am of a mind to go looking for some, come the morning. But in order to fill up my flask, it must first be emptied – and I hate to waste my rum.”

Silently, Grantaire offers the flask to Courfeyrac again. He supposes it goes quite a way in easing the aching all over his body. He would not call it rejuvenating, certainly not, but the numbness it induces is the best he may get, for the moment. A small alleviation of pain is better than nothing, better than needlessly prolonged suffering.

 

“You speak only of my desire to survive, Courfeyrac.” Grantaire points out as they trade sips of rum. “Not of your own.”

 

“My foot is useless and I believe some of my ribs have fractured. There is a good chance, if I have my anatomy in mind correctly, that they will pierce my lungs if they should be disturbed merely a little, at which point I expect a few hours left to me at the very most, spent heaving and gasping and fighting for every further breath. Therefore, Monsieur Grantaire, I do not speak of my own survival. It seems highly improbable.”

“I believe the ribs may be my fault, though they were broken on behalf of _ensuring_ your survival. I should hate for you to simply allow my good work be undone now – since I so rarely do any good, I feel it deserves your full appreciation and commitment to keep the progress I have made.”

“You did this?”

“When at last we made it to the beach you had no pulse, not a breath in your lungs. I took it upon myself to see if I could resuscitate you, and after a short while I succeeded. You slipped immediately into unconsciousness, but you were breathing, at least.”

 

“And in this endeavor you broke my ribs?”

 

“I heard a crack, shortly before you started breathing once more, yes. They may have broken while you were thrown from the ship, I cannot claim either option as true with certainty, but it seems connected to my attempts.”

 

“Was it by your hand as well that I did not drown?”

 

Grantaire has a final sip before he turns the now empty flask over. Three drops fall upon the sand. The last lingers on the rim for a few seconds. Grantaire waits patiently, does not shake the bottle.

 

“The Captain had you against his chest, but one could easily see that by his strength alone you would not be secured. I was on my way down from the nets to aid him, when the wave blew us both overboard. I saw you in the water close to me, and so I thought: ‘This, I might be good for. This, I can do. This, I will not disappoint in.’ For once I was exactly in the right place.”

 

Courfeyrac takes as deep a breath as he can manage, to say: “I would thank you, but I fear you have merely prolonged the inevitable, so I can only say I am sorry you put so much effort into saving a dead man.”

 

“Pardon me,” Grantaire derides, “But I did not think you the sort to give up so easily.”

 

“Nothing about anything that has happened recently has been easy, Monsieur Grantaire,” Courfeyrac retorts. “The choice to give up was not easily made either, but I had accepted it nonetheless.”

 

Grantaire is silent. His eyebrows are raised, as in disbelief.

 

“I have seen death in every form you may imagine, Monsieur. I know what it looks like, and I see it coming for me.”

 

“What – you believe you have no choice in this?”

 

“I believe I would only exert myself and then arrive in hell weary and groaning. It is not how I wish to go.”

 

“Then do not go at all,” Grantaire suggests, and he sounds rather exasperated. “Do you imagine Enjolras would simply accept your resignation? Do you imagine he would see you give up on your life? No, Courfeyrac, you know well as I do that he would have you fight.”

 

“He is not here,” Courfeyrac sighs. His ribcage pulses as if developing a thrumming rhythm of its own, his heart feels no longer constrained, it beats freely against his chest wall – or perhaps that is what he imagines it is doing. “As you have said: we are alone here, we two. He must think me dead already, if he is not yet waiting for me beyond.”

 He might well be.

But Courfeyrac cannot think of that.

“You do not know that,” Grantaire protests.

Courfeyrac is weary of this conversation. His body aches and everything feels out of place, as though no part of him fits together right.

“You would have me hope? You, Grantaire? You, who, more than anyone, had declared our cause, our motivations and hopes both naïve and juvenile?”

“Your causes I judge with the same harshness the rest of the world offers, but any man that earnestly believes in such a future ought to hang onto this mortal life as hard as he may. It is not that I do not think Enjolras admirable, no matter how lofty his goals. It is more that I worry he will one day realize the mediocrity of mankind, that he will see what I see, and it will be nothing but a disappointment to him. I fear he will change into an ordinary man of the world, disillusioned and full of bitterness. That, I would not have. That, I would fight to prevent. I imagine freedom shall continue to need her most valiant defenders long after I am gone.”

“Enjolras has more cause than most of us to be disappointed in mankind, Grantaire. But so far nothing has changed his convictions. They are quite set in stone.”

“No man can fight forever, Courfeyrac. Not even one as grand as he. I hope it does not come to be, but in truth I am a man of fear, constantly drowning in it. I believe in him, I wish I could say with confidence his convictions will be enough, but I know what I have seen of the world.”

There is no way to miss the tears that stream silently down Grantaire’s face. Courfeyrac studies the man and finds his voice and countenance remarkably composed, though the tremor in his hands is a clear indicator of the storm that continues to rage inside of him. Perhaps the man has bottled the storm that set them adrift, perhaps that is why the sun has returned.

 

Or, perhaps – more likely – Courfeyrac’s mind has ceased to employ common sense.

 

It must be so, because he finds himself swayed.

Somehow, the man has manipulated his sentiment by laying his own heart bare.

“Tomorrow then,” Courfeyrac sighs, aware of pain in every part of him, “Tomorrow we will look for water.”

 

∞

**26 th July 1718 – Unknown Beach**

 

In the morning it is no longer Courfeyrac’s throat that burns, though the rum has done a swell job of drying him out. The fire has spread to his whole body, and though the day is dry and the sun already sits high in the sky, he wakes up in a pool, his clothes soaked through entirely. At first he fears that the waves have crept to high, but that notion is swiftly dispelled.

 

The smell is easily placed; the sweat is of his body’s own making, and Courfeyrac needs only to recall fields of soldiers, feverish and moaning as death crept all around them, to know what has happened to him.

 

He hopes he does not draw Grantaire’s attention onto himself as he lifts himself up to look at his foot. It is swollen – the skin is reddened and prone, drawn tight and almost polished in appearance. Infection has set into his body, most likely through his hands, where his palms are poorly healed and the sweet, flowery smell of pus is nauseatingly strong. A few days remain, at most, without treatment. Even with treatment his chances are slim.

 

There are worse ways to go, he tells himself.

 

In the end, the soldiers on their cots had abandoned all senses, had not been present for their final plights. Their minds had seemed far off. Most of them had smiled, had called out for a loved one, reaching out with shaking arms. That is a small comfort.

 

“Mister Quartermaster,” Grantaire clears his throat behind him. “Perhaps you should stay where you are. I do not think I will be long gone, and it may be better for you to rest.”

 

Fear grips him then, out of the blue, tight as a vise.

 

“No!”

 

“No?”

 

“No, please. I will go with you. I must go with you.”

 

Those eyes are perceptive, Courfeyrac thinks, and they see through him immediately. Before the man can voice the question on the tip of his tongue, Courfeyrac enlightens him. What shame is there in admitting it now? What need is there for further secrecy?

It is customary to make a confession, is it not, when one’s time draws near? He does not have time to list all of his sins, so perhaps one of his secrets will do.

 

“I do not wish to be alone.”

 

There is an unspoken end to his sentence that displeases Grantaire, but one that they are both aware of.

 

“Very well,” Grantaire goes on bended knee, his back turned to Courfeyrac. “At the very least you must manage to climb on. I cannot do that for you.”

 

He feels the welts, badly healed and knitted together with lumps of scar tissue, beneath his hands as he holds on. Grantaire’s hands secure his legs, and then the man begins to walk towards the forest.

 

“It is a spot of good luck that you are so lithe a man,” Grantaire grumbles.

 

“Would you believe I was rather round as a young boy?”

 

“I would not,” Grantaire retorts, pretending as though the sudden change to polite conversation is not utterly nonsensical. “Does piracy carve a man out so fully, then? I have not been at it long enough to pass judgement, truthfully.”

 

“I began instruction in sword fighting, rather, and that put paid to excess weight,” Courfeyrac explains. Though, undoubtedly, there have been months on the Abaissés where only by rationing did they manage to finish a journey. Long days stretched out on a becalmed ship, unbearably hot rays of sunlight and a gnawing pain not unlike what his stomach produces now, though in the grand scheme of things hunger seems a pathetically small concern, not worthy of note. 

 

“I had thought you seemed formally trained when I first saw you fight,” Grantaire acknowledges. “A lord’s son, I presume?”

 

“ _Chevalier_ ,” Courfeyrac nods, drawing the word out as he remembers courtiers doing, their voices high and nasal, “I believe I recognized the same training in you.”

 

“I was once a promising son too, before I was a sailor,” Grantaire snorts, “Though I was not kept high in favor after…well after certain revelations about me reached the wrong ears. Then of course there was the matter of my drinking, my lack of ambition, my generally unpleasant profile...I assure you my father kept a long list, while my mother did nothing but weep.”

 

“And now here we are, only two men on the brink of death.”

 The censure of Grantaire’s parents has long been left behind, most likely. It certainly left Courfeyrac long ago – though while he lived his father claimed to love him dearly, took great pride in his son. Courfeyrac never rectified that misplaced pride, never told his father how he abhorred the cowardice of men of their stand. Sometimes he thinks about what might have happened if he had sent that letter he once wrote. Perhaps it would have hastened the Chevalier de Courfeyrac’s end. Perhaps his heart would have given out a few months earlier.

Perhaps, knowing his beloved son had chosen to run away with his spouse would have been a more fitting death blow than grief over an unjust, made-up murder.

His father had not lived long enough to catch news of Courfeyrac’s first merchant ship. No, before Enjolras had ever made captain they had kept to themselves in various ports, never staying long enough to develop more than fleeting reputations. Courfeyrac had sold his services and offered law advice, Enjolras had sold his penmanship, his calligraphy on heartfelt letters or contracts. Piracy had not been the initial plan, had come about rather by chance and turned into something more useful than anticipated.

“Do you know of Alexander Selkirk?”

“I cannot say that I do,” Courfeyrac regrets to inform Grantaire.

“He was a castaway too, once upon a time. I first heard of his story when we made port in London, some eight years ago now. I was passed out in a tavern – which, you must know, the story of my treachery to England starts quite similarly, if I am honest--”

“And I presume you wish to share it with me?”

“What I know of Selkirk? Yes, you are truly adept at seeing right through a man, Mister Quartermaster,” Grantaire grunts, pausing to get his bearings and decide on which path to take through the lush wildlife that encloses them now. “This Mister Selkirk, you see, was marooned by his captain. He sailed with the _HMS Weymouth_ just around the African continent, after he had spent some time buccaneering in the war. A man just like myself, I thought – good for nothing, unruly, a questionable lack of respect for authority, not particularly adept at anything, but passable in most aspects of sailing that most of his transgressions and failings were overlooked. A captain’s pride though? Once that is wounded, well…”

 

Grantaire grips his legs tighter, hoists him up a little higher and bids him to hold on as best as he is able, lest he slip off.

“…in any case, his captain, a fellow named Stradling…I believe? Under the command of another ponce called Dampier, not that their names are of any importance, other than that I must name them as awful men, left him for dead on an island much like where we find ourselves.”

 

“I suppose you mean to be encouraging?”

 

“Only he didn’t die, you see? He held on for well over four years, until in the year 1709 of our lord, another English captain found him and took him on board.”

 

“A captain of the Royal Navy?”

 

“Only loosely affiliated,” Grantaire laughs, “Selkirk’s savior was an English privateer, by the name Rogers.”

 

“Surely you do not mean to have me believe our soon-to-be governor is the hero in this story?”

 

“As it often is, he took the laurels for someone else’s bravery. It was not him that spotted Selkirk on the beach, but it was his ship. Have you heard the story of Columbus and the prize he took for himself…?”

 

Courfeyrac recognizes what Grantaire is doing, and he concedes that he does it well. For some minutes now, he has not thought on his pain at all. It cannot last, but for now it is a pleasant distraction.

He knows the story, but still: “I imagine you have some thoughts to share on that as well?”

 

∞

It is close to nightfall when at last Grantaire finds a fair amount of rainwater in a pool, formed naturally between a few rocks piled upon each other by nature’s fancy. He fills up his flask dutifully, offers it to Courfeyrac and urges him to drink slowly, lest he make himself ill. Then he has some for himself before once more filling up the bottle.

“There do not seem to be any springs on the island,” Courfeyrac points out, once they are seated side by side, worn out and ready to succumb to sleep.

 

“I fear you may be right.”

 

“If we must wait for the next rainfall we might yet find ourselves dead before very long.”

 

Grantaire’s head lolls heavily to the side to grin at him. “You might find yourself dead either way, if your wounds grow worse.”

 

Courfeyrac does not dignify that with a response, but Grantaire’s smile turns from triumphant to encouraging either way.

 

“I knew there was too much in you yet that wished to live. Lay your head down, Courfeyrac. Rest, for once.”

 

“Combeferre would have already found three different plants to wrap my foot in,” Courfeyrac yawns.

He had vowed earlier not to think of the man, not now that he is lost, now that he will never see him again. There would only be despair that he might not have been clear enough. He believes that when Combeferre shared his cot they had mutually agreed not to mention what Courfeyrac confessed - but what if Combeferre misunderstood? What if he had written Courfeyrac’s words off as the confabulations of a feverish invalid?

No – No, Courfeyrac cannot allow himself to think of the man. He should not have mentioned him. Now the memory of his touch ripples over his skin as a phantom would, cooling him and making him shiver.

 

“I’m sure I can fashion you some foul smelling poultice, if it will soothe you.”

 

“Do not tell me you studied the healing power of plants too?”

 

“Whatever I would produce would be more experimental trial than tested cure, I fear,” Grantaire laughs.

 

They say no more.

 

∞

He sleeps uneasily, feels as though he were back in the water again. His arms are too heavy, his legs are altogether impossible to move, laden with lead and anchored deep beneath the waves. Before him, the figure of Ménard appears, mangled and bloodied.

The man says nothing, face forever frozen in the moment before a laugh. His eyes are slightly crinkled, but the longer Courfeyrac looks at him, the more his face is overrun with blood. Courfeyrac realizes too late that it is not water he is drowning in. Blood licks at his lips as though it had a life of its own, flows into him, pulls him under into its viscous depths. He is engulfed. His arms will not work – he cannot scream either.

In the darkness, his eyes snap open – but still he cannot move. Next to him, he feels Grantaire’s even breath on his cheek. Why will his arms not move? Why can he not move?

Pain comes alive in his body and with it he regains control of his extremities. Soon afterwards, sleep overtakes him once more.

 

∞

**July 27 th, 1718 – Unknown Forest **

Grantaire’s hand wakes him with a soft shake. By the light of the moon he does not appear in full color yet.

“What is it?” Courfeyrac rasps. Now that they have had water, his throat no longer burns quite so intently, though once more his body feels soaked through. Grantaire must notice, but he does not comment on it.

Grantaire points behind Courfeyrac where, through the trees, smoke is wafting slowly towards them. It is not mist – it cannot be, the color of it is much too dark, that much is certain. This smoke comes from fire – and where there is fire, often there are people.

If he strains his eyes, farther out he believes he makes out the soft orange light of the fire they seek. He hears no voices, no confirmation of human presence, but they might simply be too far off yet.

 

∞

 As they approach the beach, Grantaire sets him down against a tree as quietly as he can. It is too dark to make out more than silhouettes, but the fire is manmade, piled high. Around the fire sit a group of men, conversing in hushed tones and seeming solemn.

The hour is not far from dawn now. Courfeyrac feels delirium lapping at his mind in waves, waiting to pull him in again. He must rest, but he cannot if they are to make contact. Diplomacy, more than anything, requires delicacy. He does not feel up for the task, but what choice does he have? He has decided to live - so live he must. 

 

Grantaire is looking at him expectantly.

 

“I believe it to be most advantageous if initially only you approached them.”

 

“Me?” Courfeyrac gasps, “I am injured!”

 

“Which means they’re less likely to perceive you as a threat, do you not agree? Go.”

 

“And if they should attack me? If they should decide to make sport of me, what will your clever plan bring us then?”

 

“Then I imagine I’ll follow you swiftly thereafter, given that I can make out just about seven of them in the dark, and we are but two, one of us rather incapacitated.”

 

“I suppose that is a fair judgement of our odds,” Courfeyrac sighs. “Very well, follow some paces behind me then – and hand me that branch to your left.”

 

It is far from perfect, to hobble along sand braced onto what must have once been part of a rather sturdy tree, undoubtedly uprooted and destroyed by the same storm that spelled disaster for them. Already his hands are prone to split open once more, and it takes all of his strength to keep from collapsing into a pitiful heap. His mind swims, his vision is blurry – he imagines it would scarcely be better even with the light of the sun to aid him.

 

“Who goes there?”

 

The voice is blessedly familiar. Courfeyrac could weep with joy.

(Courfeyrac could also be imagining it – further proof that he has gone too far, that he is now too deep in the claws of his fever. But already there is hope in his chest, fighting off the monster of doubt that consumed him the last days.)

“Enjolras…” Courfeyrac hopes his voice carries. A figure hastens towards him. He hears his name called once or twice. Stiff, salty hair tickles his nose as he is enclosed in the arms of a friend.

“Courfeyrac…is it really you? Can it be you? I am not imagining you, am I? The island sun has not distorted reality quite so, has it? Tell me you are real! I can hardly see you in the dark!”

“I am real, I believe,” Courfeyrac laughs through a throat tight with tears. It is as though a bubble is expanding inside, ready to explode.

 

Hands run over his face, his body, his neck, for the moment uncaring of his temperature and the sweat that has soaked his shirt through.

 

“Oh, Courfeyrac,” Enjolras sighs, pulling him close once more. “Even if I am merely imagining you I would be happy to accept it as all I may have of your friendship now. It is much better than the nothingness of the past days.”

 

“You are not imagining me. Where is our ship?”

 

He cannot see the _Abaissés_ anywhere along the shoreline, even though the soft waves are easily made out in the dark.

 

“Beached about a mile east of us – we thought it better to set up here, it offered protection from wind. We lost too many men already. Grantaire – he went overboard…”

 

“The waves have not bested me,” the man himself says, foregoing an introduction via Courfeyrac as he emerges from the tree line. Enjolras only now thinks to let go of him, after Courfeyrac’s knees buckle under the sudden weight the man leans on him when he hears Grantaire’s voice, clearly shocked.

 “Grantaire…”

Enjolras’ voice is only a breath, so soft Courfeyrac is not sure he truly said it. Perhaps it was the wind who whispered it.

“Come, captain. Your quartermaster needs the warmth of the fire and some generous medical care.”

Grantaire once more offers Courfeyrac his shoulder to bring him towards the fire, where a few men sit scattered, worn and ragged. Enjolras stops Grantaire after he deposits Courfeyrac on an overturned log next to Joseph. Courfeyrac watches as if through a curtain how Enjolras squeezes Grantaire’s shoulder, how their eyes hold their gaze unwaveringly, unafraid.

The men speak to him – he thinks they do, at least. He does not quite hear what they are saying.

 

His eyes begin their own search, initially unaware of what he is looking for. The absence of a target makes it clear. He cannot find Combeferre among the men.

 

“Enjolras, where is he?”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -Fun fact: when you're performing CPR on someone and you do hear a crack, you still have to keep going because it's so much easier to fix a few broken ribs than restarting rescuscitation again. It's still absolutely awful to hear though, believe me. 
> 
> -Some bacteria colonies do smell like flowers. Pseudomonas aeroginosa, for example. Can't tell you if the 18th century already had them though. But that's not even important at all, becuase if they did, they weren't KNOWN. So lets not get caught up on that. 
> 
> -The Story of Alexander Selkirk that Grantaire tells is true - and it later inspired Daniel Defoe's book Robinson Crusoe. Selkirk was marooned from 1704-1709, survived, only to die of illness in 1721. He was really rescued by Woodes Rogers, who would later be named governor of Nassau, and who already plays a part in this story. 
> 
> -Christopher Columbus claimed that the first man to spot land (on the voyage to "India" in 1492) would get a huge ass price, but then when someone spotted it he was like: "oh ya I definitely already saw that late last night sry m8 the gold is mine" because there was no aspect of this man that wasn't totally shit. :)


	9. On Experiencing Loss and Walking the Road of Recovery

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for: historical medicine & stuff that happens when you're on a deserted Island.

**July 27** **th** **, 1718 – Unknown Beach**

Enjolras turns away from Grantaire, but it is Bahorel who answers first, before anyone else can think to.

“He’s working with Feuilly – they think they might be able to fashion some trap with which to fish.”

“Our stores are rather dangerously depleted, despite my attempts at rationing what yet remained of our stores on the Abaissés.” Enjolras admits, sheepishly. “How have you been faring?”

Courfeyrac cannot for the life of him recall the last time he ate. He leaves it to Grantaire to convey as much. His mouth does not quite feel up to the task. Instead there is the driving urge to sleep, taking over his body. As he feels his eyelids droop he hears Enjolras order someone to send for Combeferre.

∞

Courfeyrac rouses when Enjolras shakes him awake. He follows the movement of Enjolras’ spindly finger, can blurrily make out two figures coming up from the beach; behind them the morning sun finishes her climb into the sky.

His vision is not as it should be, his eyes burn and he has quite some trouble keeping them open, but he can still see the figure of Combeferre, tall and regally composed, pausing, then speeding up rapidly – the closest to a run Courfeyrac has as of now seen from the man.

Combeferre comes to a stop some feet still away from Courfeyrac. It is close enough that Courfeyrac can make out deep circles beneath the man’s eyes and a rather haggard posture. He might say the man looks defeated, if he did not know better. But that cannot be. Combeferre cannot –

“He needs seeing to, Combeferre,” Enjolras urges, softly, breaking the silence that has settled over their small camp. The surgeon drops the dead crayfish he had been carrying in both hands, leaving it to Joseph to pick them up and bicker half-heartedly with Feuilly about how to prepare them, and strides towards Courfeyrac.

Firm hands on his shoulders urge him to sit back down on the overturned log – Courfeyrac had not fully realized he had risen to greet the man until he was forcibly returned to a seated position – and then Combeferre is kneeling in front of him. His forehead rests against Courfeyrac’s knee and for a while he just breathes. Courfeyrac feels warm droplets on his skin, running down the length of his exposed shin until they drop off the side of his foot into the sand. He wishes he were coherent enough to study their path. Combeferre’s shoulders are shaking slightly. He is crying - silently, stiffly. Courfeyrac buries one hand in Combeferre’s hair and feels his own eyes start to burn.

“I am alive,” Courfeyrac whispers. “We are both alive, my dear... my... my Combeferre.”

A wet laugh – a quick exhale, then Combeferre pulls his head back.

“I had almost thought to try and pray, so desperate was I.”

Courfeyrac’s hand makes its own path forward, around to Combeferre’s neck, up towards his cheek. He can almost ignore the pain that arrives upon exerting any sort of pressure on his injured flesh, so wonderful does it feel to be able to touch him again, to know that he is real.

Gently, Combeferre’s hands pry his own off him, and Courfeyrac finds his palms suddenly turned upward, under inspection. Gone is the sweet-smelling wound of days past, the odor has turned foul; the injury has started producing blue-tinged pus. He had not noticed. His injuries had seemed to exist on a different plane of time, to be addressed at a later date.

“In mercy’s name, Courfeyrac…” Combeferre closes his eyes, pained.

“Is it really so bad?”

“Am I to lose you to an infection now?”

Courfeyrac’s attempt at levity falls short: “Oh, that is nothing really, compared to the rest of me. I am sure my hands will manage.”

Combeferre’s face darkens with determination.

∞

 **30** **th** **July, 1718 – Unknown beach**

Courfeyrac drifts in and out of uneasy dreams sporadically, he cannot say how long he is caught in this state for. Time has lost any and all meaning, at last. Upon examining his hands and feet, as well as his broken ribs, he remembers Combeferre had ordered strict rest – that is the last thing he remembers with absolute certainty to have happened. When Courfeyrac voiced doubts about his ability to remain still for so long, Combeferre had given him laudanum.

He thinks it was laudanum, at least. Combeferre kept the laudanum stores well protected on board, those bottles likely survived the ship’s beaching. Occasionally he feels some more drip into his mouth, accompanied by rum and interspersedly something that seems more water than soup, possibly meant to nourish him.

There are dreams tearing him apart, of being held down, of searching for Combeferre’s eyes and finding them coldly professional, detached, so unlike the man he has come to know. He dreams of hands on his thighs and arms, of unspeakable pain. He aches all over, though that is not new. Pain has been his constant companion for some time now. Perhaps by now he would find the absence of it more a novelty than anything else. How amusing that notion is!

He hates those dreams.

Now he is caught in this state – half of it delirium, half of it reality, but impossible to tell apart - and he cannot escape from it. There is no way out for him to see.

Sometimes when he sleeps he imagines he can hear the voices of Enjolras and Grantaire close by his side. Sometimes he thinks he opens his eyes to see them sitting side by side, shoulder pressed against shoulder, thigh pressed against thigh, talking in hushed tones. That might be a dream.

Sometimes he hears Combeferre’s voice, chiding him for being so careless with his own body. That could very well be reality. It feels pleasantly plausible.

Then the dreams of being held down return. The accompanying pain thrums through his legs and hands. Someone wraps tight fabrics around his hands. Someone rubs cloyingly concentrated herbs onto his chest. Someone touches rough lips to his forehead. In those moments he is back in the cabin of the Abaissés. In those moments he invites Combeferre into bed with him, just like he did weeks - Months? Years? - ago. Sometimes, he is not injured in his dreams – or at least not as injured – and then the dreams devolve into something entirely different. When arms hold him down in those variations he does not struggle against them. He welcomes the embrace, tries to hold onto it, tries to slip deeper into the sensations his mind conjures for his own pleasure.

But those dreams are not made to last, they are swiftly replaced by that same feeling of horror, of being unable to move, of intolerable pain. They are replaced by the glint of a hot blade, by Combeferre’s face, suddenly closed off to him. The man bites his teeth, bites his own lip bloody as Courfeyrac pleads with him through mouthfuls of blood and rum. Courfeyrac does not remember what he pleads for in the dreams. There is only a steady rhythm of ‘please!’ and ‘no!’ in his dreams.

Sometimes he hears Enjolras close by. Sometimes he thinks he can say with relative certainty that he is not imagining him.

“It will not be long now,” Enjolras tells him, sitting by his bedside, squeezing his wrapped hand with his own. There is an encouraging smile on his lips. But soon even Enjolras disappears again – Courfeyrac cannot keep anyone close, cannot even know if his company is real or imagined. He feels horribly, utterly alone.

∞

 **17** **th** **August, 1718 – Unknown Beach**

This time when he wakes, the fog in his mind is limited, and he recognizes his surroundings to some extent. All around him there is sand, and the very fact that he can feel it on his skin is reassuring. He has not felt something so rough against his skin, so sharply recognizable, in ages. The sand is real. This state of wakefulness must therefore be real. The fog lifts further from his mind.

Pain has stopped serving as an indicator of reality – it has been so omnipresent, even in his dreams, that it has become quite an unreliable parameter. He tries to sit up and is immediately discouraged from doing so. Next to him, Combeferre stirs, springing into action almost instinctively. Courfeyrac wonders idly how often the man has stopped him from moving.

“How are you feeling?”

“Hungry,” Courfeyrac blurts out after minimal consideration. From his other side there is laughter, and soon Combeferre has a bowl in hand, brought by Bahorel. He pulls himself up into a seating position. Courfeyrac is forbidden from doing the same.

“Are you to feed me then?” He huffs, defensively. “Am I in so pitiable a state that you do not trust me to bring a bowl to my own lips?”

The sand shifts, and Enjolras sits cross-legged in the sand by his other side.

“You may not move until your ribs have healed, lest they perforate your lungs. I understand that your situation was rather more difficult while you were alone with Grantaire and movement was absolutely required, but now it is not.”

“It is half a miracle that you have not done further injury to yourself in this manner,” Combeferre agrees.

“Quite,” Enjolras sighs, “Though rest assured we are very glad to see you so divinely protected.”

“Divine?” Courfeyrac splutters, playing at indignation, “That I remain whole is the result of my hearty constitution and tremendous bodily strength – pray do not lay praise at the wrong feet.”

“Pardon me, I am sure you are right,” Enjolras agrees. “You ought to follow the doctor’s instructions. I will be unbelievably cross if I find out you intend to trick us once more. Now I must go see the Eagle about cutting down some more trees.”

Enjolras does in fact get up, and a few feet away from where Courfeyrac is involuntarily at rest, Grantaire falls into step with him. He watches them walk together, tries to clear his mind of the confusing thoughts that arise, and fails. Combeferre’s hand beneath his neck serves to accomplish that task though. Quite efficiently it dispels any thought of Enjolras or Grantaire.

This concoction – whatever it is – is heartier than what he recalls from previously introduced meals.

“Am I to lie here then, motionless, until you deem me healthy?”

“That would please me best, but I am under no illusions that you will be wholly compliant. For now your pain ought to serve well enough to stop you from attempting it.”

“Perhaps,” Courfeyrac admits, “I admit my legs especially feel rather awful. Are you not concerned that the entirety of my muscles shall find themselves atrophied by the end of your prescribed rest?”

Combeferre looks rather stricken. Gingerly, he sets the bowl down behind himself and takes Courfeyrac’s hand. His eyes close.

“There is something you ought to know.”

“Pardon?”

“Your foot, Courfeyrac,” Combeferre forces the words out, though they seem to cost him a great deal; with every word his features grow more pained. “It had become grievously infected. I have told you that I know no remedy for sepsis and I – I could not allow you to fall victim to it. Such things happen so quickly, do you see? In such dire moments, you have only minutes, if that, to decide on a course of action. I sought to preserve your life.”

“My…my leg? But I feel it. You cannot have – You mean to tell me you have taken it? That cannot be, Combeferre, I feel pain in both of my legs!”

“It is a trick your body is playing on you, most amputees report such sensations.” Combeferre says, his face now the same unreadable mask of professionalism from his dreams. “I am so very sorry, Courfeyrac, that I could do nothing else for you.”

“My leg…” Courfeyrac gasps. It cannot – Impossible –

He must see it, must have confirmation of it. But as soon as he attempts such a thing, hands bear down upon him, preventing him from action. Bahorel has appeared, kneeling behind his shoulders.

"Let me see it! Please, I have to see! It cannot be gone - I...it cannot be!"

Combeferre is no longer meeting his eyes, they are downcast. The man has retreated somewhere, where Courfeyrac has no hope of reaching him.

“I must go…there are…I must go see about gathering some herbs. Bahorel, if you would stay with him in my absence…”

He wants to call out to Combeferre, but he quite forgets to. He quite forgets to think of anything but his supposed lack of a leg.

How can something be missing and yet be felt so keenly? He feels as though if he should only concentrate hard enough, he would be able to lift his legs, observe them both, then swear at the pain and let them fall back into the sand.

Bahorel seems to recognize his plight, for he gently slaps his cheek once or twice, presumably to comfort, and says: “There’s a good man, yeah? The worst part is already over. Allow us, for once, to take care of you, for fuck’s sake!”

∞

 **August 23** **rd** **, 1718 – Unknown beach**

After he nearly burns beneath the sun, L’Aigle fashions him a makeshift tent of old hammocks. Now Courfeyrac spends his day listlessly staring out across the waves, alternatively making conversation with whomever has been assigned to watch over him for the day. Today it is Grantaire. Courfeyrac would like to say he is following the tale the man is spinning with rapt interest, only his thoughts circle back to Combeferre, despite the thrilling adventures currently being recounted.

Combeferre is not speaking with him.

Well, that verdict is rather too harsh. Combeferre is certainly speaking with him, but only in his capacity as a surgeon. Courfeyrac had tried to take his hand, some days ago. The man had allowed that much to happen, but had swiftly retreated and been utterly unable to meet Courfeyrac’s eyes hence. He comes by daily to inspect his injuries, comment on the progress of his ribs, and slather carbolic acid onto his stump and hands or some herbs onto his chest. Then he will disappear without another word, immune to Courfeyrac’s pleas.

“…Ah, there comes our surgeon,” Grantaire finishes, “At last you can stop pretending to listen to me ramble on.”

“Apologies, there was no ill-intent. I simply have…”

“A lot on your mind these days? Yes, I understand that you do. No offense was made, Courfeyrac, rest assured. I will be on my way now.”

Combeferre kneels in the sand, his hands already busying themselves with the process of opening Courfeyrac’s shirt. His hands have recovered the fastest, and so he moves to halt Combeferre’s movement.

“Will you not even speak with me now?”

“I apologize. Your ribs are healing well, I believe we may attempt positioning your torso upright, in the morning.”

“It is not my injuries that I wish to speak of, which I suspect you know.”

Combeferre pauses and finally, _finally_ , once more looks into his eyes. But they are empty of his spirit, they appear as they did on the day Courfeyrac pulled him from the water. It is a mask, one born of necessity, one Courfeyrac had thought retired. He feels shame in his gut, urgently, at being the cause of it.

“Forgive me. I will not press. I am sorry I have given offense.”

“You have given none,” Combeferre insists, his voice oddly inflected. “Courfeyrac, it is I that has offended…”

“You? Surely not! Never you mind, Monsieur Combeferre. You need not spare my feelings. I am sorry to have brought it up.”

Courfeyrac cannot believe his protestations. Not when once more Combeferre’s eyes are those of a stranger.

∞

 **August 25** **th** **, 1718 – Unknown Beach**

Enjolras helps him into a seated position, and it is a relief to experience even a slight change in scenery. Now he can at last behold the stump that was once his leg. He can run his hand over the knitted flesh that has begun to seal the wound tightly shut. Combeferre’s stitching is meticulous; it is the work of a true master, work Courfeyrac has often admired, but the wound is still tender enough that he hisses as soon as contact is made.

“You are not to touch that,” Enjolras chides, coming around to sit next to him.

“Yes,” Courfeyrac agrees, continuing to finger at his stump. How is it that he feels pain in toes he no longer possesses? It is as though someone has painted his lower leg invisible to play a cruel trick on him, leaving only a grotesque remnant of a limb. He cannot look at it for long.

He cannot say that he hates what has become of him, not entirely. He would rather be alive than dead. Of course, he says so now, after he had already resigned himself to death twice. Perhaps his calmness in the face of it was feigned? Did he feel calm merely because he felt as though he had to? Perhaps. He no longer feels as though he truly knows anything.

Some nights he wakes up in a cold sweat and thinks that he ought to have died. Dreams of being held down morph into the dreams of drowning that have haunted him for longer still, combining terribly to steal any semblance of restful repose. He feels ready to jump out of his own skin.

“Combeferre believes you are healing well,” Enjolras speaks up, after they have sat in silence for some time.

“Wonderful.”

“L’Aigle and Feuilly believe that if we can continue to sustain ourselves we may see the Abaissés restored in two months’ time. Of course, neither food nor drink are guaranteed to last until then.”

That serves to finally draw Courfeyrac from the labyrinth of his thoughts. “I thought she was irreparable?”

“She rather was,” Enjolras sighs, “Only it seems Grantaire knows a great deal more about selecting and utilizing wood than anyone could have predicted. The trees he found are sturdy enough to see us to a friendly harbor, at the very least, if not farther.”

“If such a thing still exists,” Courfeyrac points out. “I know I have missed some time, under the laudanum. What day have we, anyway?”

“I believe us to be near to September. Combeferre tracks the constellations we may see at night, and Feuilly concurs that we are approaching the turning of the seasons.”

“And so each man’s chances to accept a pardon are gone,” Courfeyrac pronounces. “Or they will be, before very long.”

“Quite so,” Enjolras nods.

Courfeyrac had never intended to take such a pardon, despite well-meant suggestions from quite a few corners. Now he wonders if he will live to regret it. It is only a brief thought. Immediately afterwards he berates himself for even considering it, but within that thought he has plenty of room for potential regret.

“What is on your mind, friend?” Courfeyrac falls back into the role he has played for years comfortably. It establishes a sense of normalcy that has been absent for so long. It also offers an escape from his own head, sorely needed.

“I kissed Grantaire two days ago.”

Courfeyrac wishes he could more easily hide his smile, but all he may do before Enjolras glances at him is duck his head. Enjolras tugs on his hair, reprimand and exasperated retort alike. “Do not tease.”

“I was not of a mind to, I do so swear.”

Enjolras masterfully hides his own smile now.

“How did it come about?”

“You wish to know the sordid details?”

“Sordid? Forgive me, where exactly did you say you kissed him?”

Another tug on his hair follows, but now they are both laughing.

“You are incorrigible.”

“Some would say charming,” Courfeyrac protests, rubbing his scalp.

“The two are not mutually exclusive. You manage the duality well, I concede.”

Courfeyrac waits expectantly. At last, Enjolras relents and continues. “I asked him to come along and search for bird nests. I thought eggs might prove beneficial to the crew’s morale and health.”

“A pretense if ever I heard one! Enjolras, you are truly a cad! I did not wish to believe it, given the stimulating conversations we have had, but you are a scoundrel after all!”

 

Courfeyrac fondly recalls the words Enjolras hurled at him at their second promenade. Enjolras, it seems, does as well.

 

(“I confess, I would not be entirely displeased to marry you - I could think of prospects rather more awful. You could have been horribly old and ugly, for one.”

 

It had been a joke, but one Enjolras had grown enraged at. They had not known each other well enough to tell, then. Hardly any connection is fully formed within two encounters, theirs was no exception.

 

“Or you could have been meek and boring, could have lacked any sort of conviction, I suppose. That would have been all the worse.”

 

That had given Enjolras pause.

 

“I realize now that your words were made in jest.”

 

“Quite,” Courfeyrac had grinned, then swiftly turned repentant: “I will be certain to desist in the future, if it so displeases you.”

 

“No,” Enjolras had sighed, had played with the buttons on his frilly satin gloves, looking upon them in distaste. “That will not be necessary. Not if you accept that I may grow cross with you for it on occasion.”

 

“Already we begin to compromise,” Courfeyrac had dared to tease. “I must warn you that one should not do so too readily with a scoundrel.”)

 

“Quiet, you,” Enjolras chastises, without heat. “He walked by my side for quite some time. The subject circled back to what I meant to do with the information he shared, in the event that Prouvaire cannot achieve what we hope.”

“Have we had a change of plans?”

“No, they remain the same, but he had hitherto been unaware of them,” Enjolras explains, “In any case, he turned rather somber as he always does on the subject – I know the rest of you so frequently speak of him as jovial but in such moments there is a great sadness to him, I can hardly describe it. I pressed his hand. Then he smiled at me.”

“And so you kissed the man? My, how long it has been since you comforted me in such a manner! And I, your dearest friend, gravely injured! Will you not bestow the same comforts unto me?”

Enjolras smiles again, flicks Courfeyrac’s chin.

“If you are in such a cavalier mood once more you hardly require my services.”

“Ah, you are a cold man,” Courfeyrac clutches at his chest dramatically. Enjolras pulls his hand away and gives him a stern look. “Yes, very well, no agitating, I have been told often enough. Carry on, if you would.”

“I asked him if he would permit me to kiss him,” Enjolras huffs, “I would hardly press the man against a tree and ravish him.”

“Ah,” Courfeyrac nods, “Yes, that sounds rather more like you. And what came to pass afterwards?”

“Nothing,” Enjolras admits. “L’Aigle tripped into the same clearing, we drew apart, and have not found privacy since. In any case I do not expect anything shall happen.”

“And why ever not?”

“Do not play the fool, Courfeyrac. I can hardly…you know I cannot take a lover.”

“Not quite true – you cannot carelessly take any lover, I concede, but that does not mean it is impossible.”

“Please, do not tease me about this, Courfeyrac. I mean it. Your jests before were very well made, but this is too much.”

“It was no jest, my friend. I understood your situation easily enough, did I not?”

“You did,” Enjolras concedes. “I admit, you were willing to understand quite readily. But you were a man of Paris, already you knew much more of the sexes and their many peculiarities than most others...”

“I was fifteen! A mere boy! I thought only that you surely must know yourself better than I ever could, that is all there was to it. Grantaire is a travelled man, a smart man. I know he cares for you, admires you, venerates you; he all but confessed it to me when we thought ourselves marooned. I do not think he will mistake you for anything but a man.”

Enjolras frowns all the harder for it.

“Pardon me, my friend. I do not mean to imply that you must tell him. Certainly you are under no obligations, your body and your choices remain your own. It only seemed to me that you wished to know him more intimately.”

“I am afraid. I have not told a soul about my situation since I made you aware of it.”

“You mean since you kicked me from our wedding bed and refused to speak to me for weeks on end?”

“Quite so,” Enjolras agrees, drily.

“If there is a way for me to help you…”

“I know I may always count on you, yes. And I thank you for that, Courfeyrac. Truly.”

∞

 **5** **th** **September, 1718 – Unknown Beach**

Courfeyrac has trouble sleeping, as he does most nights now. There are paths to consider, where they might go from here. The island is not bountiful, but he has seen some fruit trees in the short purview he has had of their temporary home. It does not lend itself well to agriculture. There are not many endemic species either, from what he can tell, save what they can fish out of the water. Perhaps there are a few reptiles or birds to be found, if Enjolras has already located nests. The supplies from the beached Abaissés might altogether last them a month longer, now that they are so few.

But what shall happen after that month?

They will not yet be done with repairs, a month from now.

He supposes they can stretch the rations, providing that rain falls upon the island or their fresh water supply on deck is not contaminated, but after that they would subsist only on what they may catch. And then, if they should set sail once more? What then? They must keep some supplies to reach a nearby port.

One of the older sailors is coughing and groaning, Courfeyrac supposes he will die soon, if not from his disease then from the cold that seeps in at night.

Enjolras has curled up next to Grantaire, and he can see that he has wrapped himself around Grantaire like a vise. Their figures are distinguishable even in the darkness. He supposes such proximity may easily be blamed on the cold. Excuses are readily made, those two are not the only ones who have doubled up. Joseph sits by the water alone, staring out at it morosely. Once Courfeyrac had fully regained his senses it had occurred to him that Isaac was nowhere to be seen, but he had not wished to address it.

 

He can imagine what might happen to a one-legged man on deck in a storm. He hopes it was quick, at least.  


Combeferre rests a few feet from him. Courfeyrac considers this unspoken thing between them, and once more wonders if perhaps he imagined the kiss on his brow when he was feverish. Perhaps, if he has merely imagined it, that would serve to explain why Combeferre has grown so distant with him.

Was it a revelation of some deeper desire, he wonders? Did Combeferre realize Courfeyrac has longed for his touch - for him - for some years now? Was he in a position to proposition him? Surely not – there remained, despite their friendship, a difference of power in their dynamic. Courfeyrac thinks Combeferre would not have refused an advance, but he cannot say if the man would have done so because he thought not doing so would have undesirable consequences. Perhaps Combeferre felt that he could not refuse Courfeyrac, if he asked. Perhaps Combeferre had noticed his desires and been disgusted. Perhaps Courfeyrac has created this awful silence between them all on his own. Perhaps he has only himself to blame for the man’s withdrawal. Perhaps he has abused Combeferre’s trust, his friendship. The thought is a hard one to stomach, but he cannot imagine why else they act as strangers would, now. A million possible mistakes, none of them pleasant.

 

Now that he is alone with his thoughts, and clear-headed, it is torturous.

 

He ought to talk to Combeferre - but he hesitates to force a conversation. Must he wait until Combeferre deigns to approach him once more? Perhaps. He will, if he must.

 

And then there are the men to consider, more reasons besides the nightmares to forego sleep. They are all men who need someone to rely on, now more than ever. It is his job to see them through to the end, be that by starvation on an island or at sea. They need him to be reliable. He must be that.

 

He is still their quartermaster. Every day he regains some more of his old strength, and the remaining men do not seem like to relieve him of his office. Therefore he must see them through. They may have to ration more stingily. They may have to suffer for it, but he will see them through it.

Courfeyrac searches for strength to go on in his soul, and begins making plans.

∞

**September 18, 1718 – Unknown Beach**

 

Feuilly blows once more on his contraption, sending a volley of sawdust into the air between them, then presents it to Courfeyrac proudly.

 

“I think it will fit you well.”

 

“I think that if it lends me strength to walk once more you will have made me the happiest man on this godforsaken island. I have been itching to get back on my...foot.”

 

Feuilly nods, pulls him up by the arms, then maneuvers the crutch so that Courfeyrac may rest half of his weight upon it. Courfeyrac hops forward. Feuilly backs away two steps, observes his progress. Courfeyrac’s body still aches, but now it feels as though it is once more a productive ache. He no longer feels entirely immobilized.

 

“You are smiling.” Feuilly nods his approval, his French still somewhat accented after so many years sailing together. “That is good. Don’t go and overdo it with the crutch now, you hear? When we get back into a port I might even make you a boot to walk with, if you are compliant.”

 

“Oh, you really do intend to stoke my hopes sky high, do you not? That may take months!”

 

“And we may well have died of thirst by then,” Feuilly agrees with a nod, shrugging as if he truly is not bothered by the notion. “But it is good to hope, isn’t it? You always said so.”

 

“And is my word to be taken as law? That hardly seems democratic.”

 

“No one man’s word may be taken as such, but I do occasionally find you to be rather inspiring. I thought only to give back in kind.”

 

“Thank you, Feuilly.”

 

They shake hands.

 

Enjolras and Grantaire often sit side by side these days, talking quietly.  Occasionally they disappear into the forest and return with eggs. Courfeyrac knows not what Enjolras has decided - if he has decided anything, that is. Enjolras has not voiced a desire to talk about it once more. Courfeyrac knows his friend well enough to give him leeway when necessary. He trust Enjolras to approach him if he has need of counsel or comfort.

 

∞

 

**1st October, 1718 - Unknown Beach**

Grantaire spears a lizard on his sharpened stick, asks the gathered men if they believe he should skin it before cooking or afterwards. The vote is unanimously in favor of the latter, so the experiment begins. Next to Grantaire’s feet, three more lizards are waiting for be cooked.

 

Once he sees the sparse remains of their crew - no more than 12 now, to Courfeyrac’s deepest pain - fed and somewhat sated, Enjolras joins Courfeyrac, bringing Combeferre along with him. Combeferre looks at him. He does not speak. Again Courfeyrac wonders how he could have so gravely miscalculated, so greatly overstepped.

 

The urge to apologize is strong, but he cannot merely blurt out the words on the tip of his tongue now.

 

“The Katherine might be patrolling, looking for us. We were not far from Green Turtle Cay when we were stranded,” Enjolras says.

“It has been quite some time since we set foot upon this island,” Courfeyrac shakes his head, playing with his bit of speared lizard. It is not what he would consider palatable on a healthy stomach, and he has only just begun to regain a full, hearty appetite. "If they looked for us at all they have given up on us by now."

“Vane has better things to do, captain. Was it not you who saw Hornigold with the Governor? If I were a betting man, I’d say he’s got that fucker looking for us. We’re alone here, and the only face we can expect is one that wishes to kill us,” Grantaire, sitting down next to Courfeyrac, extrapolates. “You should have accepted those pardons.”

“You did not,” Enjolras points out. Courfeyrac senses that they are continuing an earlier argument. Even as he strains his eyes he cannot make out any markings on Enjolras’ throat, and his collar is not particularly high tonight.

Grantaire cocks his head at Enjolras.

“The pardon never extended to me, I do not think. Traitors to the crown are usually exempt.”

 

A pause.

 

“But even if it had - do you imagine I would leave you to die alone?”

 

From his words alone it is not clear which ‘you’ he speaks of, but given the fact that he only has eyes for Enjolras, it does not take a particularly gifted mind to realize the nuance to his words. Having said his piece, Grantaire rises once more, patting his legs and leaving Courfeyrac a cup of water. Enjolras watches Grantaire walk away. Courfeyrac watches the man take a deep breath. Then Enjolras stands up to follow Grantaire.

 

Courfeyrac shares a smile with Combeferre, who had been watching to development with barely disguised interest. For a second he believes to see some of that warmth he so craves, but Combeferre’s smile dims. That brief expression of pain is nigh unbearable.

 

“I am so very sorry,” Courfeyrac sighs. “I am so sorry if I have given you the impression that I harbored baser - or rather more explicitly: carnal - desires for you. I am sorry it has turned you away from me. This is hell for me, you must know, to not be able to talk to you at all, to look upon you as nothing but a stranger when before you were a cherished friend. But if I have truly brought us to this point, then I will keep my distance.”

 

Combeferre stares at him, mouth agape. Now it is truly too much to stomach. Courfeyrac struggles with his crutch, nearly topples over on the uneven sand, but finds himself with Combeferre’s hands on his elbows, steadying him, brow full of concern and eyes so intolerably sad.

“I do not know what to say, only that you have misunderstood what has transpired.”

 

“For once, Monsieur Combeferre, nor do I.”

∞

**15th October, 1718 - Water**

Bahorel lifts him over the railing of the Abaissés with astounding ease, and sets him onto the deck carefully. Enjolras hands him his crutch, smiling rather encouragingly. The wind, at last, has turned favorably onto them.

 

“It might take you some time to get used to the sea, but Feuilly and the Eagle installed a rather intricate net of rope for you to use as guidance. They will deny having done so, if asked, but I thought you might like to know.”

 

“Thank you,” Courfeyrac nods. He regards the crew, nods at each man in turn, then cedes command to Bahorel and Enjolras. The way to the bow of the ship is not made without effort, but he manages. There is a way to go yet. Most mornings he still wakes, fully expecting his leg to have grown back and invariably facing disappointment. His own limitations mock him, but he is rather grateful that his utility has never been defined by solely his physical prowess.

 

Feuilly was right. He so often preaches the necessity of hope - it would not do well to dismiss one’s own rhetoric when it is needed so direly?

 

He has seen them through the island. As Bahorel has said - the worst of it must surely be over now?

 

“Get us under way!” Enjolras shouts from far away. A breeze tickles his nose. Before him the ocean stretches out, endlessly blue.

 

∞

 

**16th October, 1718 - Half a day’s journey North**

 

On the horizon, the sun is only just beginning to emerge. Courfeyrac once more finds himself at the bow of the ship, alone on deck at such an hour. He thinks Grantaire is in the nest right now, though he may be asleep. Courfeyrac would not blame him for it - they are stretched thin enough as is.

 

Then, behind him: “Courfeyrac.”

 

Combeferre clears his throat and stands beside him.

 

“How are you, Monsieur Combeferre?” Courfeyrac wonders, resorting to stiff formality out of sheer surprise to be approached.

 

“I cannot pretend I am glad to once more be addressed thus after you have called me by a more intimate endearment upon our reunion, though I am not surprised after I have shown myself to be so utterly inept.”

 

“On the contrary, Monsieur, I doubt anyone less apt could have preserved my life. It hardly hurts now.”

 

“Do not lie to me,  Courfeyrac, please. I imagine it causes you great deal of pain yet, anything else would be most unusual. Physical as well as psychological.”

 

“Very well. You have caught me. I detest the loss of my leg, I detest the helplessness I seem to have acquired in tasks I used to manage with ease. But do not think for even a second that I am not glad to still be alive.”

 

Combeferre turns his whole body towards Courfeyrac.

 

“A more skilled man might have saved your leg.”

 

There is a very belated realization coming to Courfeyrac, one accompanied by a small bit of anger and a rather generous portion of frustration.

 

“That is what this has been about? That is why you avoided me for so long? And I thought--”

 

“You must understand, how guilty I felt after it was done. I was...I had such doubts. I thought I might have acted too rashly because I could not bear the thought of losing you. You were delirious. I told you I might have to amputate -- I -- Courfeyrac, you pleaded with me not to do it, but I saw no other way to keep you, and I so dearly wished to.”

 

Combeferre’s eyes close.

 

“I thought you might detest me for not allowing you to die. You screamed at me that you would rather perish than endure further pain.”

 

Combeferre’s hands are shaking, his eyes are shut tightly.

 

“I could never detest you, Monsieur Combeferre. Surely you know that. I must have made that abundantly clear. You are not so thick as to have missed it.”

 

“No,” Combeferre agrees, “You are right, I have noticed…Courfeyrac-”

 

“Ship on the horizon!” Grantaire’s voice rings out from above. Courfeyrac immediately grabs for his telescope. He cannot make out much yet, only that she is a sloop, with a lesser outfit than the Abaissés, but looking to be in better condition.

 

“Can you make out her flag?” Combeferre's voice has lost some of the previous vulnerability, as the need for effciency outweighs their need for speaking of what has so long gone unsaid.

 

Courfeyrac can make it out, fluttering confidently in the wind.

 

“We must hoist our colours at once!”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No historical notes for you today, but some medicinal ones: 
> 
> -As mentioned, the infection Courfeyrac had in his hands was from pseudomonas, and while they do smell sweet at first, once they settle into a wound and infect it, the smell is no longer nice at all. The pus is really blue in color. Google at your own risk. 
> 
> -Leg amputations were usually performed at first by an incision of the skin, after which the flaps were folded back so that you would have something to close the wound up with afterwards. This needed to be super fast (you didn't have very many successful blood transfusions in this era, and if you did it was because recipient and donor were a match by chance. You also didn't have anaesthetic, that was introduced in the early 19th century, and though I have given Combeferre super advanced Knowledge in some aspects, in terms of pain relief he has to make do with Laudanum as everybody else at the time did.)  
> -Sepsis can kill in a matter of minutes if it isn't stopped - even today it can kill. It's no joke.  
> -Broken ribs take, on average, about six weeks to heal. That's how Long Courfeyrac had to lie still for. Best Treatment? Probably not. Best available? Yeah, Kind of. 
> 
> All in all: is it likely that, in this historical Situation, Courfeyrac would have survived? Absolutely not. But it's fiction and I didn't want to kill the boi. Fight me if you've got a Problem with that.


	10. On Carrying on and Thinking of the Future

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The final chapter, my work is done. Enjoy.

**16th October 1718 - Half a day’s journey North of the unknown beach**

“Someone go to rouse the captain!” Courfeyrac calls out to the men that come ambling up from the hold one by one, rubbing their eyes or stifling yawns of exhaustion. Joseph is already on his way to the cabin when Combeferre reminds the man to knock first, seconds before Courfeyrac was about to request the same.

“Courfeyrac,” Combeferre stops him from making his way back to the wheel, where Bahorel is relieving Ben. His hand is gentle but insistent, and Courfeyrac is stayed for a while longer. “I know now is not the time, believe me, I know it well, but-”

“Where is the fucking flag? Goddamn you Frenchmen! Were you not ordered to raise it?” Grantaire shouts from above, already making his way down. “They will surely fire on us if we do not hoist it soon!”

Heaven knows they cannot afford any further injury to the ship. Three cannon balls, strategically placed, would be enough to undo them. He does not much wish to place bets on how strategically the approaching ship may fire.

Combeferre looks rather regretful when Courfeyrac looks back at him again.

“We will have words yet,” Courfeyrac swears, trailing his hand along the inside of Combeferre’s arm, the one not reaching out towards him. His skin is bared today as the man wears his sleeves rolled up to the elbow. When Courfeyrac’s fingers reach his wrist, he squeezes, just enough to convey his meaning. Combeferre seems to understand.

It is always so, between them, is it not? How often have they delayed, and delayed again, for the sake of doing what must be done? How much longer will they be able to?

“Very well,” Combeferre swallows down a protest. “But see to it that you do not get yourself killed before such an opportunity presents itself. Know that I will be very angry with you if you do.”

“Oh, no, I would not want to see you angry at anyone but unruly patients and the quack Galen.” Courfeyrac smiles, before Combeferre at last lets him go.

“You hold a place among my most unruly patients to date. Even now you ought not to be up and walking around. Bahorel sought to have words with Enjolras on the matter of allowing you a place on watch rotations, but everyone was rather stumped as to how to forbid you from placing yourself on them, as you are charged with making them.”

“Quite clever of me, if I dare say as much. Yes, I well know that you would keep me in bed indefinitely, but so lush a life is only open to a certain kind of boy. I rather think my wounds forbid me from pursuing that profession now.”

“Take care not to be too flippant,” Combeferre cautions, “It does you no favors.”

 

He feels the absence of his hand in the cold wind that now whips his skin all over. Earlier he had been delightfully warm.

“Where are we on the flag?” Courfeyrac asks Grantaire when the man has descended gracefully from the nets, jumping onto deck, knife gleaming between his teeth.

“Vane’s cannons are readied, but they should recognize our colors soon enough and retract them. Though perhaps he will fire on us anyway, if he thinks we have abandoned him. I do not think I would blame him, nor would I call him out of order for it.”

“I should like to think him in possession of more reason than that,” Courfeyrac scrunches up his nose in disgust.

 

“And what if it is not Vane? Have you considered that?” Grantaire wonders, picking at the skin of his fingers. “What if this is Hornigold flying false colors, and we are sailing into a trap just waiting to be sprung?”

 

“In that case we are all lost, as those ships are in much better condition and certainly faster than we. They would not need to pursue us for more than a few hours,” Courfeyrac supposes. “So we can do nothing but hope that it is indeed Vane who approaches, do you not agree?”

“Hope usually breeds nothing but disappointment,” Grantaire huffs, but relays Courfeyrac’s following orders in a loud and clear voice.

“To be frank, R, I expected recent events to leave you reconsidering your stance on the futility of hope.”

Grantaire’s face remains wonderfully impassive. But there is a slight tick in his cheek, as though he is resisting the impulse to lament. It rather reminds Courfeyrac of when they first happened upon him, when an air of easy confidence and nonchalance surrounded him like a suspicious cloak, setting off warning signals in his mind that he was not to be trusted. How long ago it feels! Courfeyrac rather wonders what the man could possibly have to hide now, now that they have been marooned together – now that they thought they would die with only each other for company. On the island, Courfeyrac thought Grantaire had seemed unwilling to accept such a fate. It had seemed almost optimistic, how he had carried Courfeyrac on his back for the better part of two days. Where has that gone now that they are back at sea?

“A few kisses traded here and there, nothing more,” he snorts. “To be frank, Courfeyrac, I believe he may have kissed me in some ill attempt at comfort, that first time, and now fears to tell me no out of some misplaced fear that I would use our connection to my advantage. It is neither pleasant nor productive to consider such things, but I have long made a habit of indulging my most fearful thoughts more than is their due.”

Perhaps that is it. Grantaire believes the island to have been the exception, an almost mythical place, in which conventions did not apply and he was free to pursue and be pursued in turn. Perhaps he believes Enjolras to be indifferent to him. Courfeyrac supposes it is possible the man might have forgotten to mention to Grantaire that he cares for him.

Or else he has mentioned it, and Grantaire cannot bring himself to believe it. In such a case, Courfeyrac feels it his duty to make an attempt.

“It is not so,” Courfeyrac insists. “Is it not him that pulls you against him first when he desires your company? From what I observed it was you who followed him into the forest, more often than not, not him being led by your hand.”

“Oh yes,” Grantaire nods bitterly, “He’ll kiss me and push me away in the same breath. What else is a man to think but that it is obligation that drives him, or duty, or pity, or something worse still, that I cannot even imagine?”

Feuilly calls out to Grantaire, requiring help with some of the netting around the cannons, and no more words are exchanged. Just as well, since the ship draws near enough so Courfeyrac may make the man he had hoped to find on it. Certainly the flag was familiar, but the ship was not. It is not the Katherine. It is not any ship that Courfeyrac knows, but if he had to guess he would describe her as French in make and model.

Courfeyrac waves as best as he is able while he clutches the rope. Not much time passes until Vane’s crew has fashioned a plank for him to cross over, and cross he does. The man’s face is angrily contorted, determination alight in his eyes.

Next thing he knows, Courfeyrac finds himself pressed against the second mast, a knife to his throat and Charles Vane’s breath warm on his face. Try as he might, his remaining leg cannot do much for his own stability in the face of such an attack, and he slips, now vulnerable, held up only by the power of Vane’s anger. Helpless.

“What the fuck happened, Courfeyrac?”

 

Courfeyrac cannot answer. Helpless. He is utterly helpless. There is nothing he can do against Vane. Before, he might have easily evaded his grasp. Now he can do nothing, and that is a rather unpleasant reality to wake up to.

A pistol cocks, right next to Vane’s head. Combeferre’s approach had been silent as anything, enough to leave even Vane surprised. The pistol against his head is one from his belt, taken too swiftly for him to defend it.

“Let off him and have us talk with our senses about us, captain. Else I fear you will not live through the night.”

“What the hell is this?” Enjolras’ voice calls out as he comes out of his cabin, Joseph in tow. He is still busy tying his hair back, but foregoes doing so when he sees their rather delicate position. In the slight breeze his curls look divine, rather like something out of a myth. The thought is unbidden, Vane’s knife is still at his throat, and by now it is rather perilously pressing into his skin. Combeferre’s hand is steady on the trigger, his glare unwavering. Rapidly, Courfeyrac feels the control slip out of their grasps.

“Captain Vane,” Enjolras greets, voice frostier once he realizes the threat he presents. “Kindly let off my quartermaster, and I am sure the surgeon will oblige to do the same to you.”

Vane does not let off.

More of his men attempt to follow onto the Abaissés, though by now the remainder of Courfeyrac’s crew has rallied and drawn their own weapons, to stave them off. He spots Bahorel, two loaded pistols trained on the other ship, one foot determinedly positioned on the plank, as if by one kick it should tumble into the water. If he were so ordered, Courfeyrac does not doubt he could manage the task. But he waits, not taking his eyes off Vane’s crew members. Enjolras’ word is his command in such moments, nothing else.

“We were supposed to meet at Green Turtle Cay, were we not?” The voice belongs to Vane’s quartermaster. Rackham looks rather comical, leaning heavily over the railing of Vane’s ship, not daring to take a single step towards Bahorel’s imposing figure. “The Abaissés never showed, while we were beset by Hornigold and his ships for weeks on end.”

“Evading them was hell,” Anne Bonny agrees in her hoarse voice.

“We thought you took flight,” Vane’s voice is habitually, in tense situations, barely above a growl. That he can manage this amount of anger with a gun pressed to his temple is rather astounding.

“Not so,” Enjolras protests, his voice once more calm. “We were caught up in a storm and beached on an island half a day from here. Most of the crew perished in the storm. Months were required to rebuild the Abaissés enough to set sail once more. We had every intention of meeting with you.”

Courfeyrac’s throat burns right up until Vane releases him. He leans back against the mast, trying to avoid ringing for air too noticeably.

“Beached, you say?”

“As you no doubt have noticed our ship is still in no condition to sail long distances. We thought to make port somewhere to afford us the opportunity to make a full recovery and then make inquiries as to your whereabouts. As you no doubt see as well, the remaining crew has suffered heavy losses. We are currently in no favorable condition to fight, but know that we will do so to the very last man if you insist upon forcing it tonight.”

Vane glances down at Courfeyrac’s stump, frowns. “Always a shame, that. It costs a crew a great deal to lose a good quartermaster.”

“Quite, only we have not lost him at all,” Enjolras agrees smoothly. “Now, might we discuss this in a civil setting? I believe I have some old but serviceable rum in my cabin, yet, if you would take a cup. Combeferre, if you would... the pistol?”

 

At last Combeferre stands down.

“How could I refuse such _warm_ hospitality?”

“You did just have a knife to my quartermaster’s throat,” Enjolras points out. “Count yourself lucky I do not treat you to a cup of piss. Or a blade.”

Vane makes one of his odd noises then follows with a laugh. Courfeyrac slumps once he is out of sight. In the darkness, he allows himself as much for the duration of a few breaths. But soon, he must follow, for Rackham already has, strolling across the deck as though the Abaissés were his to command.

 

**∞**

Charles Vane takes great delight in looking around Enjolras’ cabin. Courfeyrac watches carefully where his eyes stay the longest.

The bookshelf, for one, is where he pauses. His eyes scan the titles. Courfeyrac wonders idly if he knows how to read. It is not a requirement for any captain, but most he has met know how to anyway. Writing is a different matter, that skill is altogether more rare to come across.

 

“You no longer command the Katherine,” Enjolras begins, carefully pouring Vane a cup.

 

“Ran her aground in August, with that dog of a man on our heels,” Vane explains, holding the offered cup towards Courfeyrac in a conciliatory manner. Well, he supposes overtures as such must be accepted in the name of cooperation.

 

“And the ship you sail now?”

 

“Stolen off French merchants, naturally,” Vane shrugs. “Best one we could find, given the circumstances. Where were you of a mind to sail?”

 

“We had thought to try for North Carolina, given that we know Captain Teague to have made his residence there. We hoped we may be offered refuge there for the time being.”

 

“That will do you no good,” Vane shakes his head, drowning his cup and helping himself to more immediately. “We come from North Carolina. In recent weeks we met with Teach. I attempted to persuade him to fight for Nassau, but he was not amenable. It seemed to me that he wished to convince me to join his fleet.”

 

“He has returned to piracy?”

 

“It seems you cannot keep a greedy man from the spoils he perceives as his right, no matter the pardons you entice him with. He is awful, but at the very least reliably so.”

 

“And where were you sailing now?”

 

“Back to Nassau. I thought to send out some of my men to go on land and sow a fair bit of discontent.”

 

“If Rogers does not have ships patrolling all parts of the island,” Enjolras points out, pensively drumming his fingers on the wood.

 

“I do not believe he has the men to do it, England seems rather unenthusiastic in her support now that we have been driven from Nassau for some months,” Vane shrugs, leaning back in his chair a little too far. Now it looks as though he is slouching, rather than allowing himself to relax. “We have a smaller sloop with us, it may carry a small delegation of my men there easily enough.”

 

Enjolras considers these words for a while.

 

“I suppose that is a decent plan.”

 

“We have also had news from London, if you would believe it.”

 

“Have you? Anything of interest?”

 

“A traitor was captured and imprisoned there, if you would believe it. This man was sailing from the colonies, determined to have an audience with Walpole, that fat fuck. Rumor has it he was carrying the same illicit knowledge talked about in hushed tones for months past, the continued existence of which has vexed the Crown to no end.”

 

“Indeed?”

 

“Rather young, the man. This would not have anything to do with the ship your crew dispatched in April? I thought I had your assurance that the traitor died with the ship.”

 

“Treason against England seems rather to be in fashion recently. I cannot say who a dead man might have spoken to before he met his end, nor can you.”

 

Enjolras is really very good at feigning disinterest, but Courfeyrac detects the unease below.

 

“Some would say both our livings are treasonous.”

 

“As a Frenchman I do not think I can be treasonous against a country I do not hail from, but I am sure Louis does not appreciate my work.”

 

Charles Vane laughs, all traces of earlier anger seemingly forgotten, and toasts Enjolras.

∞

“Courfeyrac,” Joseph approaches him, a length of rope rolled up tightly from his elbow over his hand. “I would have words, before we make land.”

 

Courfeyrac pats the wood next to him in invitation, setting his lecture down to the side.

 

“I have heard that Vane plans to send some men to Nassau once more. Is there any truth to it?”

 

“He means to do it, yes, I can say as much with reasonable certainty.”

 

Enjolras and Vane have spent hours bent over the collective maps. They would do well not to foist another change of plans upon the men now. Such a thing comes dangerously close to careless abuse of power.

 

“I would ask to go with them.”

 

Courfeyrac remains silent. It only makes sense. Ever since Isaac was lost to the waves the man had grown more withdrawn with each passing day. Caught up in his own thoughts, Courfeyrac had not reached out. Now he feels as though he ought to have. It is not just a matter of allowing the men to approach him, he must make an approach too when he feels it necessary. He has not done his duties well, if this conversation is now taking place, and he has found himself at least a little surprised by it.

 

“Ursula is all alone in Nassau. She’s never getting Isaac back, and that is partly my fault. I wasn’t -- I couldn’t save him from the waves, Lord knows I tried my damnedest. I am no match for the sea, loathe as I am to own up to it. I feel it only right that I be the one to break the news to her, as gently as such a thing can ever be broken. Perhaps I will take her to the colonies, and we may make a new living there. She deserves at least that, now that she has been robbed of her happiness.”

 

“Your feelings do you credit, Joseph,” Courfeyrac commends. “I do not think the captain would refuse your request.”

 

“I did not think he would, he is too good of a man to do so, beset by kindness to the men who follow him,” Joseph laments, “It is my own conscience which disturbs me. I would not like to abandon the crew, such a thought feels wrong. But I cannot go on as I have, torn up with guilt and missing what remains of my family. When we left Nassau, Ursula confessed to Isaac that she believed herself to be with child. What would become of her and the child if she should lose me as well?”

 

“You need not see it as abandonment,” Courfeyrac assures him.

 

“How can I not? I swore an oath when I joined, to fight alongside my brothers…”

 

“Which you have done, for quite some time. There was no talk of lifelong servitude that I recall.”

 

Joseph frowns all the harder for it, unwinding and winding the rope again and again.

 

“You may very well do a final service to all of us, if you deliver a message to the right person.”

 

Joseph looks hopeful. At last it looks as though Courfeyrac has found the right way to go about it.  

∞

 **10** **th** **November, 1718 – Green Turtle Cay, Caribbean**

Sand is still daunting to Courfeyrac. His crutch sinks in at unpredictable intervals, leaving him quite literally stranded and helpless. Shame burns high in his cheeks whenever one of the men is obliged to help him out, though they take great care to assure him that there is nothing to it. Bahorel especially seems rather indignant whenever Courfeyrac as much as averts his eyes upon requiring aid.

It is a vexing thing. To avoid such situations, he spends as much time as he can sitting around the fire. Vane’s quartermaster elects much the same strategy. When he is not drinking by the fire, he is off with Anne Bonny in the lush forests that this island offers. Courfeyrac thinks that spending months here would not nearly have been so hard. Perhaps more losses would have been avoidable. Occasionally it is unbearably hard not to dwell on the past. Especially so when he considers that some losses may have been easily preventable, leaving him at fault.

Combeferre seems to sense these roiling thoughts inside his head. Whenever he falls too deep into such spirals, the man has a seat next to him. Their thighs align neatly, but never is their proximity increased beyond that point of contact. Combeferre speaks of the progress the Abaissés is making, of the plants he has found around the island, of what he has read recently, of what nonsense Vane’s surgeon speaks. Courfeyrac has to wonder if his mind is so easily laid bare, that Combeferre is on a mission to distract him.

Perhaps it is just that Combeferre has noticed because he watches more than most.

“Enjolras proposes we sail for North Carolina in a mere five days. L’Aigle put the men to a vote, and that is what they have decided on. They will not be swayed by the promise of regaining Nassau now, not after the island dealt us so heavy a blow, and I believe they have infected Vane’s men to do much the same. We will endeavor to once more meet with Teague, but I fear the men may well be overworked by then. Perhaps you ought to have words with Enjolras.”

“Bring him to me and I will do as I am bid. As it stands I have no desire to hobble across the beach like some invalid, right this moment. He has not sought me out.”

“You remain rather harsh to your own person,” Combeferre voices thoughts that seem to have stewed in his own mind for much too long. “It is odd to me, not to mention painful to observe, because you are nothing but understanding and gentle when a man of the crew is unable to serve as he wishes to.”

 _It is different_ , Courfeyrac almost says. But he knows it is not so. How can he admit that he holds himself to higher standards? How does he explain to Combeferre that he cannot allow himself the slack he might afford someone else? He knows there is no sense to it, but he cannot allow himself to be so soft in the face of his own ineptitude.

 

Combeferre would rightly call him ridiculous for it, if he should voice his thoughts. It is certainly easier to allow for weakness in others, but it is not right by any means.

  


“I believed I had found the reason in it,” Combeferre explains further, “In that you detested what I have done to you. I believed you now thought yourself lesser, and by extension thought me horrid for-”

“We have been over this, Combeferre,” Courfeyrac interrupts. “I do not detest you for saving my life. I do not detest you at all. In fact, if we were alone this moment I should endeavor to assure you of how grateful I am to yet draw breath-”

“But we are not alone, nor does it seem we will be in the foreseeable future,” Combeferre points out, “And I would say my part before you protest my impetuosity.”

“Pardon me. I did not mean to interrupt. Carry on, if you would.”

“I think what you detest is that we treat you differently, now that you have lost your leg. You would rather we act as though nothing has happened, as though you are not limited in the slightest. I think that you believe that through ignoring it, you may be able to carry on as you have. I think that you mean to triumph over your perceived shortcomings with nothing to aid you but grit and determination.”

“Perhaps,” Courfeyrac shrugs. His cheeks burn.

“It will not work, Courfeyrac.”

“So you say.”

“Yes, so I say, and you would do well to take my words to heart. You cannot heal from something if you do not allow yourself time to do it. A lost limb is not a trivial injury. You cannot treat this as you have your previous wounds.”

“I rather thought you were the one treating it. What else could those salves you so carefully applied have been for?”

“It is painful – I realize that – to lose something so important, so essential. Do not allow it to consume you, do not allow bitterness to take such deep root in your heart. I beg you, Courfeyrac. Do not allow it to destroy you because you err in the assumption that you must somehow prove yourself to men that have always stood behind you, unwavering in their loyalty.”

Combeferre squeezes his shoulder. Courfeyrac leans into the touch a little, as much as he has ever dared. Then the man leaves.

∞

**21st November, 1718 - A day’s journey from North Carolina’s shores**

 

“You have requested my presence, captain?”

 

Enjolras looks up from his writings, nods.

 

“I thought to reassure myself you have given Joseph the letter to Euphrasie. Of course I do not doubt that you have, but my own thoughts have been so scattered in recent weeks...”

 

“He has vowed to guard it with his life, if need be. I believe he will see it through. What do you mean to do for Prouvaire?”

 

“If I could convince the men to do so I would set our course straight to London. But they do not know Prouvaire, I do not think I could rally them to it. Such a feat is beyond me.”

 

“He may well have already been hanged.”

 

“For now I should like to place my bets on their instinct for self-preservation. As long as he lives we have no cause to inform Euphrasie that she must publish what she knows, as he has surely told them.”

 

“And yet you have sent Joseph off to do exactly that,” Courfeyrac has a seat. The relief from such a small measure is immediate.

 

“So I have. Prouvaire knew such a thing would likely happen. He agreed anyway.”

 

“I know that as well,” Courfeyrac sighs. “Come to think of it, Prouvaire may have spat in their faces and refused to bargain for his own life. I would not put it past him. But there is something awful still, in knowing that a man might be made martyr by your actions. Neither you nor I asked him to die for a cause, he chose the risk to his own person for himself. And yet — do we not bear at least part of the blame?”

 

Enjolras nods.

 

“It has kept me up the past nights. This rests no easier on my conscience than it does on yours. But I have turned the conundrum over in every possible way in my head, and can find no other viable way to proceed than to involve Euphrasie.”

 

“I would be rather more concerned if it did not trouble you at all,” Courfeyrac reaches a hand over the table to squeeze Enjolras’ own. “Perhaps if we wrap up in North Carolina, we may set our course back towards the Old World.”

 

“Perhaps,” Enjolras agrees, transitioning to a different topic smoothly. “Combeferre believes you would do better not to sleep in a hammock. It puts a great strain upon your leg.”

 

Enjolras gestures towards his cot, meaningfully.

 

“And where will you sleep?”

 

“It has not been so long since we shared a bed, has it? Do you mind greatly? I believe a hammock might serve me just as well.”

 

“I do not mind at all. However, I think your sweetheart may take umbrage.”

 

“Do not call him that.”

 

“Very well, then I shall not. But I think you may need to ask yourself how he should be referred to by your person, in the future.”

 

Enjolras clears his throat, righting a stack of paper - demonstrating a clear lack of interest in this direction of conversation.

 

“Have Combeferre take a look at your injury before you sleep. From the look on your face, even as a layman I would recommend some laudanum. You would do well to get a full night’s sleep, though I know it is asking a lot of you not to point out the hypocrisy of such a suggestion coming from my lips.”

 

“I will hold my tongue. Send the doctor my way - I have every intention of being a model patient tonight.”

 

∞

 **22** **nd** **November, 1718 – Oracroke Inlet, North Carolina**

Courfeyrac awakens in Enjolras’ cabin to the sound of cannons. Though his mind is addled by the effects of the laudanum, he scrambles upright, fishes hazily for Feuilly’s crutch, and has his one foot on the floor ready to get up, when Combeferre’s voice alerts him to the man’s presence in the room. In his lap, a rather thick volume on medicinal plants lies forgotten. Courfeyrac rather gets the impression that he has been tricked in a manner most foul. They ought not to have been close enough to Oracroke yet, to warrant the sound of cannons. A foolish part of him had thought they might altogether be able to avoid guns, for the time being.

Either Combeferre has upped the dosage of the drug, or Bahorel has misinformed him about their position when asked last night, that they now find themselves embattled once more. Perhaps both.

“You are not to participate in today’s battle. We may not be able to keep you from shifts on deck, but unfortunately for you, in battle the command is the captain’s alone. I see Enjolras was right to assign someone to watch over you, you seem determined to disobey.”

From outside he hears Bahorel’s loud, wild laughter, hears the spray of a wave hitting the side of their ship hard. Inside, the sound of Combeferre closing his book and standing up commands his attention. Outside, someone else joins in the laughter.

His body feels heavy, his mind flits from one place to the other.

Combeferre takes a few steps, still not daring to come much closer. By all means, he should dare. Courfeyrac wishes he would.

“As quartermaster it is part of my responsibility to be one of the first over the railing,” he settles on, as a rebuttal.

“If we were planning on entering a British Ship today, and you were in any way fit to fight, certainly that would be part of your duties. As it is, we have come too late. Teague is already overcome. I believe Vane has decided to take flight and not engage at all, whereas Enjolras has commanded that we stick around to pick up survivors if we are able. And you, you are to remain where it is safe.”

“I thank you for your concern, but I will not have it today.”

With those words he forces his uncooperative body upright, curses the lack of mobility he must now contend with. The laudanum certainly does nothing to help. Still – what are physical limitations to a determined mind?  

Perhaps it is foolish of him to attempt to outmaneuver Combeferre, because all too quickly he finds himself rid of his crutch altogether, only hears the sound of it hitting the floor, somewhere to his left. His hands are pinned to the door by the surgeon’s, their torsos pressed tightly together.

“As I cannot ignore my concern, today you will have to suffer it,” Combeferre says, his tone brokering no argument. There is no further case to be made anyway, not when Courfeyrac is so incapacitated. Glass shatters behind him. The sound of a cannon shot once more carries through the air.

“It seems the Royal Navy disagrees with your sentiment not to engage. It is the Royal Navy that we face here?”

“So it would seem,” Combeferre agrees. “They have succeeded today, and on such victories it is easy to get drunk. They are grown overly confident. May I trust that you will not attempt to disobey the captain’s orders?”

“If it cannot be helped,” Courfeyrac relents. “Though I hold it is wrong of you, to keep my strategic mind out of battle. You yourself have claimed I am more than a pair of feet. I have infinitely more to offer than my cutlass. ”

“And every man on this ship knows it,” Combeferre assures him, his voice turning rather more gentle in the face of Courfeyrac’s cooperation. “It is not out of malevolence that we would see you safe, you careless fool.”

“Well,” Courfeyrac breathes out, glancing at where they are joined. “Here I am - Here we are together, in fact, safe. Solitary.”

Combeferre looks at him oddly before a hint of comprehension begins to dawn on his face.

“Pray release my hands back into my own keeping. As I am safe and you no longer have to fear my escape, you have no reason to continue hold me captive thus, do you?”

“Not necessarily,” Combeferre’s tongue licks at his lips, disappearing quickly from whence it came. His eyes carefully observe something on Courfeyrac’s face, flickering down to his lips. If Courfeyrac’s tongue did not feel dry as all hell, he might moisten his own lips with it, just to see if it would produce a more passionate kind of reaction from the surgeon. He is willing to wager that it might. Combeferre is beginning to look rather tightly wound.

“Now you would deem it an appropriate time to have this conversation?” He asks this instead, because there is a battle unfolding outside these walls and they would do well not to forget it.

“Conversation?” Combeferre’s smile appears slowly on his face, a stunning sight. “I suppose you could call it that. In a way it would be.”

“Bold words, but while I appreciate them, there do remain duties to be done. Will you not concede that I should advise Enjolras on how to proceed?”

“Courfeyrac, I tire of being interrupted,” Combeferre’s voice is a low whisper when next he speaks.

More glass shatters behind them, they tumble to the floor together as the shock of the impact reverberates around the cabin. Again the creak of wood behind and around them seems unfathomably loud. Courfeyrac’s stump complains violently.  The burn of it is awful and he feels the tears stream silently down his face.

“And you had thought to go out and fight,” Combeferre raises an eyebrow, making no effort to regain their footing.

“I am still of a mind to. I have every intention of outwitting you and absconding from the cabin. Allow me to execute my devious plan first before you mock me.”

Combeferre laughs, using his sleeves to dry the pained tears that could not be prevented.

“And what might that plan be?” Combeferre wonders. Courfeyrac takes a deep breath before he begins loosening Combeferre’s cravat, his fingers deft where the rest of him suddenly feels rather clumsy. Combeferre allows it. His eyelashes flutter twice, in a manner that reminds Courfeyrac of a nervous butterfly. One of Combeferre’s arms snakes around his waist, thwarting his plans immediately. He makes a chagrined noise.

“You must not do that,” Courfeyrac chastises without heat, “However shall I be able to distract you by means of seduction before making a dash for the heat of battle now?”

Combeferre stops his handiwork, looking at him seriously. Their fingers interlace on his undone cravat, and he guides Courfeyrac to wrap it around their hands, rather like a band in certain ceremonies a crew witnesses once or twice in a ship’s lifetime. Courfeyrac watches Combeferre’s exposed throat, watches it bob as the man swallows. He wonders if Combeferre means to —

 

But a second later, he must wonder no longer, for Combeferre has lowered his lips to their joined hands, bestowing a breath of a kiss onto where they are so bound, never taking his eyes off Courfeyrac.

 

His lips are still horridly dry, but he bends his head to do the same.

 

“No words necessary after all,” Combeferre whispers.

 

Courfeyrac thinks he may be obliged to keep the cravat on his own wrist indefinitely now, for good luck. If, that is, Combeferre has intended for the act to be so symbolic. He is afraid to ask, afraid to possibly ruin his own illusion. But what else could he mean by such a gesture? There is no denying it, but Courfeyrac’s mouth will not form the question to confirm it.

“It is apparent that you kid now, and still I fear you may actually attempt escape yet.”

“I cannot be kept long from where Enjolras is imperiled, no matter how much he may wish to protect me by forcing me into inaction.”

“So you have often said,” Combeferre breathes out, “But you have never given me an answer as to who protects you, at the end of the day.”

“I am perfectly able to protect myself.” Courfeyrac gasps when he feels Combeferre’s hand on his thigh, feels it travel lower to where he made the cuts that preserved him, some months past now.

“There is no shame in admitting to weakness, Courfeyrac.”

 

“You admit to none,” Courfeyrac protests, “Which is easier, I suppose, when none are known.”

 

“Courfeyrac you know that I am not without— Please, Courfeyrac, do not insult all that has passed between us by claiming my worry for you is so easily dismissed.”

 

“You claim me as your weakness then?”

 

“Not _you_ ,” Combeferre sighs, interlacing their bound fingers tighter still. “ _My_ worry for you. It is a rather important distinction, because your person and companionship is something to draw strength from, not at all a weakness. But you can hardly stay upright for longer than an hour at a time, most days. Enjolras is quite able to defend himself without you. He is a bold fighter, not without considerable skill.”

“Do you know that I taught him to fight as he does now?” Courfeyrac muses, “From the very beginning he was more passion than technique, hacking and slicing - oh, no doubt at all, he was still utterly menacing. But only when we took our first ship did he retreat a step to evaluate his tactics. Only then did he ask me to show him what he had never been afforded to learn.”

“If I could but persuade you to stay and feel a measure of peace from it,” Combeferre murmurs. “I am at an impasse, Courfeyrac. If I should let you join Enjolras against the man’s orders, I stand to lose you and his confidence. The latter would be horrid, but endurable, for I doubt it would be a permanent loss. But the last few months have taught me that I cannot bear to lose you, even the thought of it lodges in my chest like some pernicious splinter. And yet – if I keep you in here against your will, will I not also lose you? At the very least I think I should lose any affection I presumptuously suppose you to yet hold for my person.”

Courfeyrac smiles, scrambles up onto his elbows. The cravat around them unravels a little further. He already mourns the accompanying loss of intimacy.

“Help me up. Help me outside. Stay by my side, Combeferre, and fight so that you will not lose me. Did you not proclaim a desire to do so to me, once upon a conversation in this very cabin?”

Combeferre’s eyes close.

“You asked who would protect me, did you not? See to it yourself, if you are so adamant upon it. See to it that the vows made in silence may be made in full some other day.”

His eyes open again. Courfeyrac sees that he has reached a decision.  

∞

“I gave orders for you to remain inside, Courfeyrac,” Enjolras protests, though Courfeyrac knows he is not imagining the slight sag of relief in the man’s shoulders.

“Scold me for disobedience later, I may even deign to bend over for you of if you ask nicely enough,” Courfeyrac weaves his hand through the air, “For now let us decide how to proceed.”

Enjolras hands him the telescope.

“We have spotted at least three survivors in the water, and aim to get them on board. The Royal Navy seems to have the same idea, however.”

“What of Vane?”

“Vane’s ship has beaten retreat. The day is lost, but a few lives may not yet be. Look to Maynard’s flagship, see what he has mounted on the bow.”

Courfeyrac does, and feels his insides clench at the sight. Teague’s beard runs red with blood, his head prominently displayed for all to see.

“We were too late.”

“Not entirely,” Enjolras says, fingers drumming on the railing.

“Throw him the line, men!” L’Aigle orders, his order swiftly followed, if the sounds of the water are anything to go by.  Courfeyrac turns away from the poised Navy sloop firing on them, makes his way to Feuilly to suggest they fire on the British rowboats going after the escaping men.

“We might hit those we are trying to save, that way,” Feuilly protests, but as his mind works quickly, a new strategy soon presents itself.

“Don’t aim for the rowboats, aim for the man standing at the front of them!”

Courfeyrac has to appreciate the maneuver. A rowboat is easily tipped. It is enough for one man to frantically dive out of the way of grape shot.

Behind him, a body is heaved onto the deck, off of The Eagle’s shoulder.  Courfeyrac recognizes young Doctor Joly, notices how profoundly he is bleeding from his shoulder, how pale his trembling lips appear. But his eyes flutter open, and he smiles up at L’Aigle rather tenderly. Combeferre has L’Aigle shoulder him once more and transport him into Enjolras’ cabin, wordlessly.

Grantaire has joined Enjolras at the helm, pointing towards Maynard’s ships angrily. Courfeyrac need only take a quick look himself to realize the man’s concerns. They are readying their sails to pursue them.

 

Time is no longer a friend to them. They must make far from here.

Two more men are lifted on board, before Enjolras at last gives the order to retreat. It costs him to say it. It costs Courfeyrac as much to accept it, when he sees men still struggling in the water. Men they are, by leaving them behind, condemning to die, either by the noose or the water. But it is a decision that must be made. They cannot take on two ships, understaffed as they are. Vane has fled, they are forced to do the same if they wish to do survive.

Grantaire takes Enjolras’ hand. Enjolras does not let go.

To Courfeyrac it appears almost as if the man has found an anchor he dearly needed.  

∞

**31st December, New Year’s Eve, 1718 – The middle of the Atlantic**

Enjolras stands solemnly at the wheel, the sole figure on the deck of their ship when Courfeyrac climbs down from the mast. It is no easy task, even with the iron boot Feuilly fashioned for him, but he manages. His hands carry most of the strain now. In consequence he has quite outgrown his old shirts in the shoulders. Later, he will care for his hands, assure they do not split open. For now, he will care for Enjolras.

“Do you not have a sleeping man in your cabin to get back to?” He asks, by way of introduction. Enjolras’ hands stop their idle strokes over the wood.

“Have we been so obvious?”

“To the trained eye,” Courfeyrac smiles, one finger tugging at Enjolras’ immaculate collar, delighted when the man squirms to hide the markings beneath.

“I have lain with him,” Enjolras confesses, and he looks rather at peace with the decision.

“Ah,” Courfeyrac nods his approval, then backtracks slightly, “Dare I say I hope you were careful?”

Enjolras raises an eyebrow at him.

“I did not say he had me, now did I? No, I do not think I have uttered a word on the manner of our carnal relations.”

“ _Ah_.”

“I trust this has served to demonstrate that you ought not to pry quite so deeply?”

“Quite. Then simply allow me to say that I am glad your confidence in him was not misplaced.”

Enjolras smiles, looks out across the deck. He no longer looks quite so solemn, but there is an element of worry to his eyes still.

“What plagues you?”

“This coming year,” Enjolras sighs. “I cannot say what it may bring.”

“None may say that,” Courfeyrac leans against the wheel with his back, arms crossed at his chest, so that Enjolras may not distract himself from the conversation by means of inspecting the wheel any further. “God, perhaps, if such an entity exists. I can never quite endear my opinions fully to the one position or the other. We mortals would do well not to worry so over what we may not change.”

“No man should be entirely resigned to his fate,” Enjolras shakes his head.

“Perhaps not,” Courfeyrac muses. “But you know well as I do that we do not decide when our luck runs out. Call it divine protection if the mood so takes you, call it fate, whatever has preserved us so far, but if we continue down this path, there will most likely come a day on which we are summarily captured, tried and hanged.”

“I will not be captured. My wishes, those that I revealed to you on Nassau’s beaches - they have not changed. I hope that your resolve has stayed true, to bring about my chosen end in such an unfortunate event.”

Courfeyrac’s face softens. He reaches out to tuck one of Enjolras’ curls behind his hair.

“If you will it so I hardly see how fate or the Fates might disobey you, much less I.”

Enjolras smiles, fondly. By now he is quite used to Courfeyrac’s ridiculousness. There is hardly even a roll of eyes to be seen.

“Until that day, we will fight side by side, will we not?”

“Of course,” Courfeyrac assures, “Until the earth is free. We swore that to one another years ago.”

“I seem to remember we also swore fidelity in bed and that I would be buxom at board. We have thoroughly broken those vows, have we not?”

“I have not,” Courfeyrac shrugs. “Not recently at least, to my recollection.”

“Pardon me, I was under the impression that you and Combeferre…”

“The opportunity has not yet presented itself. It is no hardship, especially since I know his heart now and he mine. I dare say you never expected me to be chaste, out of the two of us, did you? How low an opinion you must have of your most obedient servant, you rake, that you would believe me incapable of abstinence or restraint!”

 

The rather spontaneously inspired handfasting ceremony they engaged in may hold no legal claim in any kingdom of this world, but that hardly matters. The ties between them are real enough without a king’s blessing.

“You are ridiculous, Courfeyrac.”

“Certainly,” Courfeyrac agrees easily enough. “Now what was it you mentioned about vows? Fidelity notwithstanding, we have kept other parts of the promises we were beholden to make that day. Through sickness and health, for better or for worse…”

“I suppose that is the more important part of the vow, in the end,” Enjolras smiles, glancing at him sideways.

“Not to mention that oaths extracted at sword point do not tend to hold up well, morally speaking. I prefer to know your companionship freely and willingly given.”

“We really have spent many good years together, Courfeyrac. I do not think I say it often enough, how grateful I am.”

“I am not far behind in gratitude,” Courfeyrac shrugs. “Do keep in mind that it was not merely you who gained a friend by way of our union.”

“I shall try my very best,” Enjolras nods, seriously. The façade breaks, and they both laugh.

“Have you decided on our course yet?” Courfeyrac asks, sufficiently convinced of Enjolras’ raised spirits.

“I have,” Enjolras nods. “L’Aigle is down in the hold cajoling the men as we speak. We sail to England come the morning, if all goes well. Our fight, as you have said, is not yet done.”

 

“I do not think I would have it any other way.”

 

Enjolras smiles.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -Vane did run his ship aground in August 1718, but he came about a new one rather quickly (he might have still owned two ships at this Point, possibly? Sources vary.)  
> -In October 1718 Vane did meet with Blackbeard + Crew to try and forge an alliance, but the man just partied together for three days and then once more went their separate ways.  
> -Stede Bonnet was actually captured around this time, escaped, then was recaptured and summarily hanged on the 10th of December  
> -The battle at Oracroke Inlet was Blackbeard's downfall mostly because he was tricked. Through his fearsome reputation, most merchant ships merely surrendered to him. Maynard used that to his advantage and hid reenforcements below deck. All but two (possibly three?) of the men captured that day were executed for piracy.  
> -That Vane refused to engage in my story comes from a tidbit of his own life on November 23rd 1718, when he refused to take a French Frigate after she hoisted naval colours. He was later deposed of his captaincy for it, by Jack Rackham.  
> -A short account of Vane's life after being deposed: stranded on an Island, betrayed some other pirate friends, tried to sneak on board another ship under a different name, was recognized by an old pirate friend, was captured, was put on trial, was hung. There are mentions of him mourning one of his crewmembers that had stood by his side throughout the mutiny, who had been hanged days before him. 
> 
> -Matelotage: literal translation is the French word for "seamanship", some call it gay pirate marriage. I have not been able to find Details on the procedure itself, so Courfeyrac and Combeferre just kind of literally tie the knot. Matelotage basically assured that your Partner would get your share if you died, etc. Like a real marriage. Of course you've got your standard straight historians saying it was probably JUST A THING BETWEEN BROS. But to them I say: John Swann and Robert Culliford were in love and they were HUSBANDS & nothing you say can change the fact that pirates were gay. Thanks. (Those two are worth looking up, btw.)

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are to me what A Better World is to Enjolras
> 
> Come say Hi on [Tumblr](http://www.annabrolena.tumblr.com)


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